Reclaimed
by IseultLaBelle
Summary: Home alone between her mum's night shifts, fourteen year old Chloe suffers a major panic attack after an awful day at school. Ange turns protective tiger mother and loses her shit. Potential four-parter.
1. Chapter 1

**Just a warning- this story will contain references to self-harm along the lines of The Wrong Horse a few months back. I think you'll be fine if you were okay with that episode, but please feel free to PM me if you want to know specifics first! I do have plans for another two parts after these two, so do let me know if you want me to continue :) And a massive, massive thank you to Elleigator for all your help with this one!**

**A rowie is a traditional Aberdeen bread roll/croissant hybrid thing. Apparently they're lush. **

**-IseultLaBelle x **

**Aberdeen, November 2004**

**Part I**

"So, remember, we're going to hold our debate in Friday's lesson!" Miss McBride shouts over the bell, as her S3 Religious Education class begin packing away, eager to escape. "Your homework is to read over your essays again, please, in preparation. I want you all to contribute something in class on Friday. You can bring notes with bullet points, if you'd like, but I want no reading out whole paragraphs. The whole point of this is to practice your public speaking skills, I want you to show me that you can defend your arguments verbally. Chloe Godard, can I see you before you go, please! In the RE office. And no, Ellie, Lauren, Mhairi, there will be no need to wait for her! You can talk to Chloe on your own time, not on mine."

"What have you done now?" Mhairi teases, throws her pencil case into her backpack. "That's not like you, little miss perfect."

"No idea," Chloe lies. "Look… I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"You could come over to mine later," Lauren offers. "You're home alone again tonight, right? My mum says you can always have dinner at ours when you're by yourself at home, she doesn't mind. Actually, doesn't mind is total understatement, she practically insisted I bring you home with me on Monday."

"Chloe Godard, a word! I'm not going to tell you again!"

"I'll text you!" Lauren tells her hurriedly, rushes out of the classroom behind Ellie and Mhairi, and then she's all alone, sighs, trudges into the RE office after Miss McBride, filled with complete and utter dread, because she knows exactly what this is about.

She's so, so tired.

"Close the door behind you," Miss McBride commands.

"Is this going to take long?" Chloe pleads. "I've got cross-country practice, Mr Glasby will…"

"Well, you're just going to have to explain to Mr Glasby that I had to keep you back after class today, then, aren't you? Do you know what this is about, Chloe? You should do."

Chloe stares firmly at the floor, fidgets awkwardly with her hands, jolts her leg up and down, anxious, restless, desperate to escape.

Miss McBride sighs. "Alright. Alright, if that's how you want to do this, I'll enlighten you. Fine. You still haven't given me that essay you owe me. The essay you were supposed to give me two weeks ago that everyone else has had feedback on and redrafted over the weekend, that you're supposed to be using to form the basis of your debate contributions on Friday. In fact, you've managed to write your Buddhist prayer and meditation essay since then, which I made a point of telling you wasn't the priority when I still haven't had your ethics essay, and you're going to need that for our debate. And I happened to run into your form tutor in the staff room earlier, she was telling me such wonderful things about you. Apparently, you got a commendation for your Biology project last week, and Mrs Fitzgerald has just spoken to your mother about putting you in for your Gaelic standard grade a year early? She wants to put you straight onto the Gaelic Highers timetable with the sixth formers next year, is that right?"

Chloe nods, keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the floor, plays with a loose strand of wool on the cuff of her school jumper.

Ten more minutes, she tells herself. Surely Miss McBride can't drag this out for longer than ten more minutes? And then she'll run back to her locker and grab her cross-country kit, apologise profoundly to Mr Glasby, another hour or so after that and she'll be done with cross-country practice, walk home alone, might make it in through the front door just as her mum is leaving for her nightshift if she's lucky. (Her mum is doing 6pm to 3am tonight, paeds ED cover to make up her training hours so she can apply for a Young Adult Medicine position next year, once she's taken her sabbatical to complete her PhD.)

Chloe misses her mum.

"So I'm sure you can imagine how disappointed Miss Mulgrew was when she'd been hearing such fantastic things about you recently, and I had to tell her that you seem to have just decided you aren't going to write this ethics essay," Miss McBride continues. "And do you know what the most frustrating thing is, Chloe? Your Buddhism essay was fantastic. I've given you a 20 on that one, and you know I don't give full marks out lightly." She holds out stapled sides of A4 paper, lined with Chloe's neat handwriting. "So I know it's not that you're not capable. Far from it. So what is it, Chloe? Is it laziness? Do you just think this is below you, is that it? Homework isn't optional. Contributing in class isn't optional. You were showing so much promise in August, you were sharing some really great ideas in class, but I don't think I've heard you volunteer anything in weeks now. So what happened? Chloe? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Chloe can't look at her. She can't bring herself to look at her RE teacher because she doesn't trust herself not to cry, and so she keeps staring at the floor instead, refuses to give in.

She doesn't want to talk about it.

She wants her mum.

She wants the comfort of her mum's warm arms and hot chocolate with marshmallows and her secret ingredient (though that's not so much of a secret nowadays; Chloe has seen her mum sneaking the Baileys bottle out the drinks cupboard often enough). She wants her mum to promise her that she loves her, wants to curl up together on the sofa with her Dirty Dancing DVD and her fluffy pyjamas- she finally ran out of tights that aren't riddled with ladders on Monday and she's not due her pocket money until next week, and she's struggling desperately with the onset of the Northern Scottish winter. But she doesn't want to bother her mum when she's on her brutal regime of night shifts and on-calls, with the overtime paeds ED ones thrown in for good measure.

Chloe knows that if she tells her mum (and it'll have to be over text, because for the last week her mum has been on her way to work by the time she gets home from cross-country practice or dance or choir or her flute lesson, and sleeping when she leaves for school, whether it's at home or in the on-call room at Aberdeen General Hospital), she'll come straight home from her night shift and rush off to Marks and Spencer. Even though Primark is closer. She refuses to buy Chloe's school tights from Primark because she knows her circulation is atrocious, and Marks and Spencer make the overpriced thermal ones with the fleece linings. And then it'll be rush hour, and it'll take her forever to get into town and back again. And then she'll be sewing the name labels in because despite Chloe's insistence that she's _so _embarrassing and no one else has their name in their tights, her mum is adamant that she isn't spending £10 on a two pack for someone else to claim Chloe's as their own after PE. And then it'll be an association of thoughts and she'll realise she never signed the consent form and wrote the cheque for Chloe's history trip to Edinburgh next month she brought home last Wednesday, before her week of night shifts and on-calls from hell began, suddenly decide she needs to check her school timetable while she's on the school admin to see if she can rationalise the number of textbooks Chloe is lugging to school each day while she's at it (spoiler alert: she can't), and then she'll feel guilty she hasn't been around all week, worry Chloe isn't eating enough again and drive to Sainsbury's to buy her the cereal bars she likes and get her cash out, leave her a note on the kitchen table telling her to order herself takeaway from the new Japanese place or get fish and chips and a deep-fried Mars bar from the shop on the corner as a treat, whatever she wants. And before she knows it, it'll be two in the afternoon, and she'll only have time to fit in three hours sleep before she's up again and off back to the hospital for her next night shift.

That's why Chloe won't mention her lack of remaining tights until her mum finally gets her days off at the weekend, as much as she shivers through her lessons, even when the first thing she did when she got home from school last night was run straight upstairs to change into something warmer than her school skirt with her trainer socks. It's not that bad. She can go home in her cross-country kit tonight, and she's got dance after school on Thursdays and Fridays anyway, and there's nothing wrong with her ballet tights.

Her mum needs her sleep.

Her mum is working crazy hours for the next few months trying to impress her consultant, so she can be fast-tracked through the next stage of her specialist training after her PhD sabbatical. And then she can be working nice, sensible hours by the time Chloe is taking her Standard exams next year, and she'll be around every evening to test her on her revision notes and eat dinner with her and reassure her when she's feeling overwhelmed, tell her when she's done more than enough revision and stick a film on with her instead, curl up on the sofa together on a weeknight, consistently, every weeknight. That's what she's promised Chloe. But for now, while she's still working a stupid amount of overtime this week trying to prove herself, doing a massive favour for her consultant, she needs her sleep.

She's hardly seen her mum in days.

"_Everyone_is going to present their ideas in our debate on Friday, is that clear?" Miss McBride tells her firmly. "I'm not going to have time to mark your essay before then now. That was the whole point, Chloe. The essay I set wasn't just about the essay, it was an opportunity for you to formulate your ideas, get some feedback before our debate lesson on Friday. You don't have to agree with the argument I've assigned you. That's the point. You're going to have to present ideas you don't agree with in life sometimes, and you're just going to have to get on with it, aren't you? I've got no sympathy for you if that's what this is all about, I'm afraid. You know I assigned your groups randomly, I don't doubt plenty of you would have preferred the other argument…"

"It isn't," says Chloe quietly.

Miss McBride doesn't understand. Miss McBride is never going to understand, and Chloe isn't going to waste her time trying.

She doesn't trust her.

Miss McBride is new, and young, and reeks of only-just-qualified-teacher trying to assert herself, inexperienced, can't decide if she wants to be the firm figure of authority no one messes with or she's desperate to be liked by the whole school.

Chloe doesn't trust her not to blurt it out in front of the staffroom, or make some clever backfired comment in class next term, forgotten she was told in confidence.

Chloe isn't telling her anything.

"Then what is it, Chloe? Hmm? You're in S3 now. You've got coursework for your Standards this year, now really isn't the time to start messing around, is it? You're fourteen. You're too old to be acting up like this. I know you're bright. The homework you have bothered to do this term has been of a very high standard. But I don't care if you think you can pull off full marks every time or not, I don't care if you think you've above essay feedback on your debate arguments. You're not. You can't pick and choose which pieces of homework you're going to hand in, you do as you're told like everyone else. It's arrogant, Chloe. It's arrogant, and it's lazy, and it needs to stop. Is that clear? Is that clear, Chloe?" Miss McBride repeats, patience waring, when Chloe fails to respond.

What can she say?

She's certainly not telling the truth, telling her that she's got it all wrong, that everything she's concluded as to why Chloe won't write her the essay is way, way off-track.

"Yes, Miss McBride," says Chloe quietly.

"Thank you. Right, I'm going to phone your mother…"

"Please don't!" Chloe pleads. "She'll be asleep, she's working nights all week, and she was on nights last weekend too and she was on call in between those…"

Miss McBride raises her eyebrows suspiciously. "And what is it your mother does?"

"She's a doctor. She's specialising in general surgery but she's covering paeds ED shifts at the moment too…"

Miss McBride pinches the bridge of her nose. "Okay. Okay, fine. I'm going to go and phone your father, then…"

"I don't have a father."

Miss McBride sighs loudly. "Don't be ridiculous, Chloe. You might not have a father you see, but of course you have a father. Everyone has a father. So who else can we contact from school?"

"My grandmother," Chloe tells her reluctantly, refuses to meet her eyes. She's fidgeting with her hands again, tries to distract herself, thinks of her mum and her nana and how bitterly disappointed they'll be with her. "But she's staying with my great grandparents for the week, my great grandfather just had a hip replacement. They live on the Isle of Skye."

"And they're your mum's family, are they?"

Chloe nods.

_They're my only family_, she wants to insist furiously, explosive.

But she's only going to make it worse.

"Fine. I will send your mother an email, and I'll arrange to call her at her earliest convenience. And you're going to go home tonight and write me this essay, you're to bring it to my office first thing tomorrow morning. Otherwise you'll be writing it in detention tomorrow night. It's your choice. But either way, you're writing me that essay. Do you understand, Chloe?"

"Yes, Miss McBride," Chloe repeats numbly.

She just wants to disappear. She just wants to sink into the ground and disappear, wants it all to stop, can't even face the thought of coming into school tomorrow now, and she loves school. Especially at the moment, this last week her mum's been working crazy hours, she's loved school, considered it her safe haven, and now it's been ripped from beneath her feet.

"So do you see much of your dad's family, then?" Miss McBride tries carefully, and she's doing that concerned teacher thing, trying to suss out what this is really about, but she's getting it all so wrong that Chloe most certainly isn't going to correct her now.

Who's to say she'd even believe her, anyway? She might decide she's making it up to get out of her ethics essay she's determinedly avoided writing, it would just make it all worse…

"Never met them." Chloe stares her down furiously, wills it all to be over.

"Right, okay. Listen, Chloe. I understand separated families can be hard."

She's got absolutely no idea, Chloe realises. Miss McBride clearly has not the faintest idea what she's saying.

She's never encountered this before. It's only now that she's realising that must be her mum's doing, because no teacher has ever asked her about her father before, her father's family, anything at all to do with her home life that isn't related to her mum and her nana. No one ever questioned her making a card for her mum, or her nana, instead in the pre-Father's Day art class back in primary school, no teachers have ever asked if her dad can just come instead when she's had to explain she'll have no one at parents evening because her mum is working and her nana can't make it, either.

Has her mum ensure all that? Chloe wonders.

And if she has, why won't Miss McBride let it go?

"And it sounds like there's a lot going on at home at the moment," Miss McBride continues. "You must be very worried about… it's your great grandfather, is it?"

"Not really. He's fine, he's had the surgery he came out of hospital yesterday. My grandmother just has to help because my great grandmother only had her own hip replacement two months ago and she's still recovering. And they live in a Victorian cottage in the middle of nowhere on Skye."

"And it's just you and your mum at home, is it? You can't be seeing much of her at the moment, if she's working nights. That must be hard."

Chloe shrugs. "It's just for this week. And she doesn't work nights all the time. Just sometimes. And I see her in the evenings and stuff. It's just normal. She's a doctor, she's been working shifts since I was seven. It's really not a big deal."

She won't tell her the truth.

She won't tell her that they might be living in the same house, but they're on such drastically different schedules that she hasn't actually seen her mum since she began her gruelling nights and on-calls regime last week. And yes, her mum has been working nights for half her life, now, but it's never been like this before, never so many in a row, so long that she hasn't seen her. Not since Chloe has been back living with her, at least. And when her mum has been on nights, she's always had her nana; this is the first time she's actually been left by herself and she told her mum she'd be fine, knew there was nothing she could do, just horribly unfortunate timing that she had to be asked to take on everyone else's nightshifts the same week Great Grandad was booked in for his hip replacement.

She won't tell Miss McBride that she's picked the worst possible week to fight her over her bloody ethics essay she won't be writing, the debate lesson she plans to zone out of, close her eyes, shut down and refuse to say anything at all because she doesn't trust herself not to get defensive and cry in frustration, fighting to justify her own existence and no one will understand.

"So this isn't all a cry for attention, then? Chloe?"

"No," Chloe scowls.

"Don't take that tone with me. No, Miss McBride."

"No, Miss McBride."

"That's better. So, you go home, you write that essay, you give it to me first thing tomorrow. Or you're writing it in detention tomorrow night. I'm deadly serious, Chloe. And I want to hear you speaking up in Friday's lesson, like you used to. I know everyone else will have had essay feedback, but you should have thought of that before you decided you were above doing your homework assignments like everyone else. You're just going to have to try and hold your own anyway. And I'll be speaking to your mother about your behaviour over the last couple of weeks. I want it to stop, Chloe. It _will_stop. Close the door behind you then, please."

She waits until she's run across the school to her locker, retrieved her PE kit, slipped into the toilets and locked the cubicle door before she gives in and allows herself to cry.

She's going to be hopelessly, ridiculously late for cross-country, and Mr Glasby is going to be just as angry with her as Miss McBride is. But she doesn't care.

Chloe doesn't think she cares about anything anymore, except the dismantled razor blade in the inside zip pocket of her school bag, carefully hidden beneath the tampons (which she doesn't even need yet, swiped from her mum's en suite, but if she has them in her bag at the ready whenever someone asks to borrow one then she won't be teased for being practically prepubescent, it's a total no-brainer) and the emergency twenty-pound note, and rape alarm and pepper spray on a keyring her mum insists she carry around with her and have in her hand at the ready when she's walking home by herself and it's getting dark, just in case.

All she cares about is the pain, and the emotional release it will bring her.

Because she's a monster, after all.

She shouldn't even be here.

She shouldn't be alive.

"What time do you call this, Chloe?" Mr Glasby demands, expression thoroughly unimpressed, when Chloe finally arrives in the entrance to the school sport hall. "Well? You do realise you're over half an hour late?"

"I'm sorry," Chloe mumbles, staring firmly at the floor again. She adjusts her PE bag on her shoulder, juggles with the armful of folders she's carrying, too much homework to do tonight, needs to drag it all home with her somehow. "Miss McBride kept me back after RE..."

"And what did you do to deserve that?"

"I…" Chloe stammers, embarrassed, hates being in trouble. "I didn't hand in my ethics essay."

Mr Glasby sighs. "Well, make sure you sort it out tonight. Make sure it doesn't happen again. I told you, Chloe. I told you all at practice on Monday morning that I wanted you here on time today. Everyone else is already gone, you know I can't send you on the 7K route by yourself. Not with the new student health and safety policy. The only reason I'm still here is I had to wait for you, I'm going to cycle down to catch up with them now…"

"I'm sorry," says Chloe quietly. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Perhaps something of her current mood is evident in her voice, because all of a sudden, Mr Glasby's expression softens.

"Is everything okay, Chloe?" he asks gently.

"Everything's fine."

"Are you sure? You look very pale, have you eaten today?"

Chloe thinks of the packed lunch her mum left for her in the fridge this morning, the one with her favourite cheese salad sandwich made with a rowie that was clearly a result of guilt at leaving her, or worry that she's not eating enough and needs the fat content or both, and the strawberries her mum usually refuses to buy out of season because they're too expensive. The one with the sticky note stuck to the top of the plastic box, _Have a good day, love u gorgeous girl xxx_written in her mum's handwriting, biro-doodled birds and flowers framing the edges.

The one she left out for the foxes in the park on her way to school because she knew she'd have to spend her lunchbreak in the library, writing Miss McBride's ethics essay. (The cheese sandwich rowie and the cucumber sticks, that is. To be fair, she ate the strawberries at break. And the teacake is in her locker, with the crisps and the granola bar and the flavoured soya milk carton.)

She had the best of intentions. She really did. She didn't mean to get in trouble. But when it came to lunchtime, she felt so sick at the mere thought of writing the stupid thing that she locked herself in the toilets with Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix instead.

"I had breakfast," says Chloe truthfully.

Mr Glasby sighs. "And what have I told you about proper nutrition on practice days? And proper nutrition every day, come to that. I know your mum would back me up. Your mum's talk on active teenagers and nutrition she did for the sports team parents in August was brilliant. I would have paid for someone to do that."

Chloe decides now probably isn't the moment to break to him that yes, her mum has always prepared healthy, balanced, home-cooked meals for her, and resorted to feeding her exotic, fresh, pre-made options when she's run out of time or burned the kitchen down with her haphazard cooking, like the sushi place in town or the microwave meals from the organic, healthy choices section of Sainsbury's, fed her only very occasional fish and chips and Krispy Kremes.

Her mum's own diet, on the other hand, is 90% complete and utter processed shit.

"I just…" Chloe trails off, fidgets with her hands. "I just didn't have time."

"Then make time. You shouldn't be studying at lunchtime, you should be giving yourself a break, hanging out with your friends. Eating. Go on, then. Go and get changed, get yourself a protein bar from the away game cupboard in my office, the door's unlocked. And then you can run laps of the games field until the end of practice, okay? And Chloe?" Mr Glasby calls back over his shoulder, heads outside to unlock his bike. "Don't let this happen again."

When she unzips her PE bag in the girls changing room, there's a sticky note attached to an apple that she doesn't remember packing sat on top of her cross-country kit.

_IOU Mum and Chloe time this weekend. Sorry about this week, I know it's rubbish. I PROMISE to make it up to u when I see u. Love u loads sweetheart. There'll be dinner in the fridge when u get home xxx_

Chloe can't even think how her mum managed to be in the house at the right time to manage to slip it into her PE bag.

"Oh my _god_, is that from your mum?" Sorcha McTaggart in S4 sneers, peers over Chloe's shoulder as she finishes brushing out her hair, applying lip gloss in the mirror. "How old are you, six?" She plucks the sticky note from Chloe's hands, turns to her S4 cheer squad, just finished with senior games afternoon. "Hey, look what Chloe Godard's got from her mum!"

Chloe says nothing, just slips off into the nearest shower cubicle, locks the door, to change out of her school shirt and into her PE top.

She doesn't want anyone to see her cuts.

She allows her mind to wander as she runs her solitary, repetitive laps of the school field, tries desperately to think of anything, anything at all, that isn't the RE essay she's going to have to somehow struggle through tonight if she wants to avoid a detention.

The stinging pain of the sweat mixing in with the fresh wounds on her stomach is a welcome distraction.

It feels… comforting. Safe.

She's going insane again.

She can't end up in detention, Chloe panics, anxiety building within her rapidly as she runs.

She's never had a detention in the two-and-a-bit years she's been at secondary school, and she isn't about to start now.

Her mum is so proud of her. Her mum is constantly telling her how proud she is that she's always been impeccably behaved at school, hardly ever been in trouble and when she has it's always been minor offences, moments of slightly outspoken disagreement with her teachers, nothing more.

Chloe knows her mum is as proud as she is because she always was the total opposite, constantly in trouble, tearaway, staying out until 2am drinking and smoking and doing stupid things with boys and experimenting with recreational drugs, and driving her poor mum out of her mind with worry.

Until she had Chloe, anyway.

Chloe knows how hard her mum has always tried to make sure she feels safe and secure and settled, never falls down that path, and yes, one detention isn't a one-way ticket to off-the-rails and off-your-face and having a baby at seventeen, but that isn't the point.

Chloe can't bear the thought of letting her mum down.

Not when she has always given up so much for her.

Chloe's mum has always told her that she saved her, saved her from spiralling out of control until she got herself into such serious trouble there was no going back, no possibility of medical school, no possibility of anything much except throwing her life away.

But she's…

Rape. That's why she's here.

Her mum could still have had that moment of life-changing clarity, after she was raped. She could still have decided to start her life again.

She could have done it by getting rid of her.

She could have enjoyed the rest of her teenage years, her time at medical school, properly then. She could have gone to all the sixth form parties, then, could have had more time to study, more time to spend with her friends. She wouldn't have had to rush back home from university every couple of weekends throughout her time at medical school, could have taken the Doctors Without Borders post she'd had her heart set on when she graduated, the one she turned down in the end because she couldn't face Chloe with Nana for another year. She could have actually had a social life for the last seven years, maybe even a love life, wouldn't have had to turn down every offer of the pub after work or a holiday on a remote Greek island with her colleagues, her could-have-been-friends, because she had to get home for her rapist's daughter.

Her mum could have just had an abortion, like Miss McBride's ethics essay and debate prompt sheet says.

Then Chloe would never have existed at all.

Perhaps that would have been better.

_'__Patience and grace._

_There will be good days._

_And when there aren't,_

_Your voice will make your hands_

_Make things that make others take a stand._

_But until then, _

_Please hold my hand, _

_And remember. _

_This too shall be reclaimed.'_

\- _Rose-Ellen Kemp, Reclaimed. (For Steeleye Span)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

She's so exhausted her eyes are stinging by the time she finally makes it in through the front door at just gone half eight in the morning, and that's after a grease-laden kebab that's probably her daily recommended calories all in one and yet another energy drink, on top of the two she's already had and the copious amounts of coffee she consumed throughout her shift.

Ange can't wait for this week to be over.

She has no one to blame but herself, she supposes. She was the one who told her consultant she was more than happy to take on extra shifts over the final few months before her PhD sabbatical starts, keen to get all her paeds required hours out the way, and fast, so she can focus on making consultant when she comes back onto full-time duties again, finally be done with all the anti-social hours the senior staff don't want and the seemingly endless stream of qualifications to gain, exams to take.

She's so close. She might as well push ahead now, get it all over with as soon as possible so she can finally relax a little and enjoy her career in young adult general surgery.

And it's for Chloe. That's what she's been telling herself this week, when she's been exhausted, on shift for twelve hours and then either working a double or on call in the time between then and her next shift, and they're so painfully understaffed at the moment, winter crisis in the NHS apparently having set in early this year, that through all her on call shifts she's been needed far more often than she usually would be.

But it's all for Chloe. And it might seem like quite the opposite right now, given she can't even remember the last time she saw her daughter, isn't convinced it wasn't getting on for a week ago now, before she started her solid block of nights and on-calls back to back. But it's for Chloe. She's inflicting a week or so of this on Chloe now so in a couple of months' time she'll go on her sabbatical, and it'll all get better from there.

She figures it's better to put Chloe through a couple of bouts of hardly seeing her for days now than several more months of erratic shifts.

Although, that said, it's far from ideal that her extended period of barely being in the house, and even then, only when Chloe is at school, has fallen at exactly the same time as her own mum's trip to Skye to look after her grandfather post hip replacement.

She should have known something like this would happen.

That said, Chloe seems to be managing perfectly fine with her sudden baptism of fire into being home alone. It's difficult to tell, admittedly, when she isn't seeing her in between her shifts, when she's not getting a 'Chloe report' via text from her mum like she usually would (because the night shifts in themselves are nothing new, after all; she's been doing those for half of her daughter's life, by now). But she hasn't burned the house down, at least, no complete and utter chaos, and she's been taking her packed lunches out the fridge every morning, and there seems to be evidence that she's been feeding herself in the evenings. (Although she has promised Chloe that she'll provide dinner tonight, because it's starting to feel like rather a lot of nights in a row that she's left her daughter to fend for herself in the food department, and she doesn't want to push it.)

Chloe's still only fourteen, after all.

She's basically still her baby, surely, at fourteen?

At what age does she stop being her baby?

She kicks off her shoes by the doormat, dumps her handbag, craving a cigarette but she's not going back out in that rain for anything, and she's always been determined she won't smoke in the house when Chloe's breathing in that air, too.

Actually, forget the cigarette, Ange decides.

She could collapse into bed right now and not surface until half an hour before her shift starts, quite easily.

How long has it been since she last saw Chloe?

She misses her, Ange contemplates, checks the fridge to be sure there's enough milk and healthy rubbish, throws together Chloe's lunch for the next day. It's been far too long now since she last saw her, since she hugged her, heard her laugh.

Just a few more days.

There's no texts from Chloe on her mobile, at least, no missed calls, so she's coping perfectly fine without her, but that isn't really the point.

It's not Chloe that isn't coping, clearly.

It's her.

She just wants to see her baby girl.

Two more days. Well, two and a half, really, given she'll need to sleep, but she can always talk Chloe into a morning curled up together on the sofa on Saturday and sleep through whatever her daughter wants to watch on TV.

Is Chloe missing her as much as she's desperately missing her, Ange wonders suddenly as she drags herself up the stairs, raids Chloe's laundry basket, just wants to sleep but she can't remember when she last did this and she will not be that mother whose child runs out of clean school uniform. Maybe Chloe's perfectly fine, enjoying her new-found independence, or maybe she's feeling exactly the same as she does and just doesn't want to show it.

An idea forms in her head.

She's so half-asleep that she's halfway through shoving everything into the washing machine, putting the whites and the coloureds in together and hoping and praying the colour catcher sheets don't fail her now and turn everything an alarming shade of raincloud grey, before she realises she's got a selection of every type of clothing Chloe could possibly need for school and cross-country and dance and everything else she's encouraged her to do in the name of having an established 'thing' well into her teen years so her thing won't become hanging around disused railway bridges with cheap cider and fags and a bag of weed like her mother. Everything except her school tights.

How has she managed to raise a not-so-small human totally incapable of just putting everything straight in the laundry?

Ten minutes later she's tried Chloe's underwear drawer just in case she's going insane, behind the bathroom door, under Chloe's bed and everywhere else she can think of in her room (and to Chloe's credit, it's not actually all that much of a mess in there today), even checked her dance bag but she still can't find any evidence of the damned things.

She wouldn't normally bother, but there's talk of snow on Friday.

Chloe's just going to have to stick them in the wash herself when she gets home from school, since she clearly doesn't want her life made easier for her, Ange decides.

She tried.

She's going to do all of her daughter's laundry that she can find, maybe even change her bed and dig out the spare blankets from the back of the airing cupboard if she can drag herself out of her own bed early enough before her shift, because the white haze in the Aberdeen sky this morning screams snow and freezing temperatures overnight, and Chloe's circulation is another level of shit. And she's going to get her sushi for dinner, and Chloe loves sushi. So all in all, she's definitely tried.

She's been learning over the last year or so that sometimes, trying is all that can really be done when it comes to parenting teenagers.

Yawning furiously, eyelids heavy, Ange treks back downstairs with the felt tips and the sticky notes, crouches on the kitchen floor as she loads the rest of Chloe's laundry into the washing machine, already trying to remember where she put the extra washing powder she bought the other month when it was half price- or did she?

That's when she sees it.

There's blood. Dark, thick bloodstains on the inside of Chloe's dance leotards against her midsection, soaked through, faint traces on the insides of the t shirts she's clearly been wearing over the top, the thermals she bought her to wear under her school uniform because she kept complaining she was going to freeze to death at school, the sleeves of her school shirts, days old, some of them, and Ange knows from experience it's too late now to soak them out.

She freezes.

Shit. Shit…


	3. Chapter 3

**I am honestly stunned by the response to the first two chapters of this, I don't think I've ever had that many reviews for one update before! Thank you so, so much MegWritesx, elleigator, holbycityjosia, Katie, Holbyfan196993, and guest for reviewing the last chapter. I love writing teenage Chloe, and I'm so glad you enjoy reading it! You were all so lovely that this has t****urned into a mini multi chapter. **

**As ever, feedback is much appreciated and always makes me very, very happy. I'm also going to start writing another teenage Chloe-centric story tonight that's going to be stylistically a bit like this story but more so like Green Shoots in Spring if you've read that one- if you haven't, it's one main 'thread' running through the story with lots of short flashback scenes of Chloe and Ange through Chloe's life. The theme for that one is Ange as an absent parent during parts of Chloe's childhood because she's having to focus on her career, their relationship once Chloe is an adult and their love for each other- if you have any requests/prompts that fit with that theme, please feel free to throw them my way too! They can be set at any point in Chloe's life. **

**-IseultLaBelle x**

**Part III**

The heavens open, on her last lap around the school field at the end of her cross-country practice.

She's soaked through by the time she makes it back into the changing rooms, huddles shivering in the rain for a while after the hockey team disappear off towards the sports hall and she knows that practice must be over, knows she can go and gather her things together, head home.

Chloe doesn't want to encounter anyone else in the changing room, even if that means she's practically frozen by the time she allows herself to go back inside.

She's not in the mood to have to talk to anyone. Even her friends. And that isn't like her in itself, because Chloe loves people; perhaps it's a consequence of being an only child, having grown up largely around adults.

She's slipping back into that horrible, dark place she was in around a year or so ago, when her mum finally broke to her how she'd been conceived, why she'd always told her firmly that she didn't have a father, didn't have a grandmother or a grandfather or any family at all from her father and that didn't matter even the tiniest bit.

Her whole world fell apart for a while after that, and Chloe can feel herself starting to slip back into those awful habits again, voices returning in her head.

She doesn't want to speak to anyone. She doesn't want to see anyone, just wants to slip away, disappear.

She shouldn't be alive.

She shouldn't be alive, she shouldn't have ever been.

She shouldn't have ever been alive full stop, she should have been aborted when she was still a ball of cells because she's a violation, imposed upon her mother against her will and left to serve as a constant reminder of her rape, of her rapist.

Because that's what she is. She's half her mother's rapist, and how can her mother ever look at her and see the half of her that comes from her own DNA when the other half makes her so repulsive?

She should have been aborted. She should have been aborted, only her mum didn't know she was pregnant in time, didn't have that option.

She should have been aborted, and Miss McBride wants her to write an essay, put forward a debate argument about exactly why.

Chloe empties the contents of her stomach into the bushes at the edge of the school fields.

She doesn't care if anyone sees.

She's gathering together her things, psyching herself up to head out back into the freezing rain, or sleet, even, maybe it's sleet, because her hands feel numb and there are icy traces in her hair, Aberdeen winter setting in, when her phone vibrates in her bag.

Mum calling.

"Chloe?" her mum asks urgently as she picks up the phone. "Chloe, are you still at school?"

"Yes, I'm just leaving now," Chloe tells her, confused. "I… cross-country overran…"

"Good. Get the bus home then, alright? You've got your emergency money, haven't you? I know it's only a couple of minutes, but get the bus home. Did you get caught in the downpour during cross-country?"

"Only a little bit," Chloe lies.

Except it isn't, she decides, it isn't really a lie. If she'd just gone straight back into the changing rooms like a normal person, wasn't going completely insane again, she wouldn't currently resemble a drowned rat.

"Okay. Get the bus home. And make sure you wrap up warm, sweetheart, have you got spare gym stuff? Or just put your school uniform back on. It's freezing out, it seems to have turned to sleet now, and I think we're due snow later," her mum fusses. "I've been called into the Paeds ED early, we've just had a teenager in with hyperthermia. I mean, we think he's no fixed abode, but that's not the point. I don't want you walking home in this weather, you'd freeze half to death with your circulation. I can't see why the buses would be messed up, the roads were okay when I drove into work, but if they are, go back into school, call me, and I'll come and get you, alright?"

"You're working, Mum…"

"Yes, I am. And being your mum's my most important job, isn't it? Hey? I can slip out for twenty minutes to get you home safely if you need me to. But I mean it, Chloe. I don't want you walking home, okay? And go and have a hot shower, when you do get in. You can turn the heating up, if you need to…"

"You never let me turn the heating up, are you feeling alright?"

"Well, maybe I'm just feeling guilty that I've abandoned you to fend for yourself for the week," her mum tells her, and there's love and affection in her voice, love and affection that Chloe just can't make sense of, not now, not now those thoughts of utter self-loathing and disgust at where she came from, that she was allowed into the world at all have entered her head. "I miss you, sweetheart. I feel like I haven't seen you for weeks, not days."

"I miss you too," says Chloe quietly, numbly.

Because she does. She misses her mum desperately, and all she wants is a hug.

But her mum shouldn't have to give her one.

Her mum shouldn't have to do anything for her, because she should never have been born, her mum should have been allowed to just get rid of her, regardless of how far along she was.

Her mum shouldn't have to pretend she loves her for her sake.

"I know, sweetheart," her mum sighs. "I know. Listen, I'm going to try and get out of work a few hours early today. Or tomorrow morning, really. I've come in early today, and I've been in an extra hour or so catching up on electives half the time this month as it is. So they owe me some time, I'm going to see if I can get away early. I can't promise anything, but I'm hoping I'll be there when you wake up tomorrow morning."

"And then you can sleep," Chloe tells her. "I'm fine, honestly. I'm coping fine. You must be so tired, though…"

"Yes, I am. And I can sleep once you've gone to school, can't I? I might even manage to get out in time to come home, sleep a bit, get up with you and make you breakfast and then I can go back to bed once you've left for school."

"You don't have to do that, Mum…"

"I know," her mum insists. "I know, I know, you've mastered feeding yourself. Your cooking's probably better than mine at this point, we all know that doesn't take much. But I want to. I can't have you growing up too quickly, can I? And anyway, I miss you far too much to wait until the weekend to see you if I don't have to. So I'm really going to try and be home for you tomorrow morning, okay?"

There's an edge to her mum's voice that Chloe can't rationalise; worry, but excessively so, can't be explained away as just at the thought of her daughter walking home alone in the cold.

"What do you want for breakfast tomorrow, if I do manage to escape work early?" her mum asks her now. "I can't promise anything, but if I pull it off, if I get out before seven, I could make us pancakes?"

"We don't have any eggs…"

"I can get some tomorrow morning. Sainsbury's opens at seven, that's plenty of time before you need to be at school. I can even give you a lift to school, if you want…"

"Mum, you're going to be exhausted…" Chloe begins to protest.

"Hey, why are you so worried about me all of a sudden?" her mum teases gently. "I'll be fine. I'm your mum, I'm the one who's supposed to worry about you, okay? Not the other way around. You know I used to run on next to no sleep on back to back nights when you were little, right? Not all the time, but if you were upset, I would. I think I can manage making you breakfast and taking you to school if I get out of work early, I can still sleep the rest of the day."

"You're making me feel guilty now."

"What, for making me survive on no sleep when you were seven?" her mum laughs. "You do realise I signed up to be your mother, right? I knew what I was getting myself into."

"Except you didn't, though," Chloe reminds her quietly, curses herself even as she utters those words, because yes, it's true, but her poor mum doesn't need her spelling it out to her like that because she's selfish, because she's desperate for her mum to give her false reassurances to make her feel better, regardless of how awful it must be for her. "You didn't sign up to be my mum, you didn't have a choice…"

This is the worst possible conversation to be starting over the phone. She's selfish, stupid, needs to get a bloody grip and let her mum go back to work, she's interrupted her career enough as it is…

"What? Of course I did," her mum exclaims, confusion in her voice now. "Of course I had a choice, sweetheart, where's this coming from?"

"I just… I don't know. I don't know, I'm being stupid…"

"Yes," her mum agrees gently. "Yes, you are. I did have a choice, everyone has a choice, Chloe. There are always options. No matter how late you leave it, there's always a choice. And I chose you. It was the easiest decision I've ever had to make. I never, ever want you to think any different, okay? I chose you. I chose to be your mum. That means I'm not trying to work something out so I can see you tomorrow because I feel I have to. Okay? I'm doing it because I want to. So I will really, really try and see you in the morning, alright? But you're okay?" her mum asks now. "Everything's okay at home, at school, is it?"

"Everything's fine, Mum," Chloe tells her.

She's desperate to blurt out that it's all anything but, but she can't bring herself to do it.

Her mum is trying to complete all her training hours so she can finish her young adult general surgery specialising, go for her consultancy exams, keep a PhD going on the side and look after her all at the same time.

She doesn't need to be dealing with her being a ridiculous, panicky mess, she doesn't need to be made to feel guilty by her rapist's daughter, and she most certainly doesn't need a phone call from school tomorrow on top of the email she'll probably have received by now, that will be waiting for her when she next logs onto her personal email account, informing her that her daughter has landed herself in detention, ruined her perfect behaviour record.

She can't do it to her.

She just can't do it.

"I'm fine," Chloe tells her, does her best to force brightness into her tone. "Everything's fine."

Her mum pauses for a moment. "Okay, sweetheart. Listen, I'm going to have to get back to work now," she apologises. "If I want to escape here early later. You have a good evening, okay? Text me when you get home, please, so I know you're safe?"

"I'll be fine, Mum, honestly…"

"Chloe…"

"Okay. Okay, I will."

"You promise?"

"Promise."

"Thank you, sweetheart. And you can call me if you need me, alright?" her mum reminds her. "My phone's always on at work, I might not see if straight away if I'm in theatre, but you know you can always call the YAU and they'll get a message to me if it's urgent, don't you? Or General Surgery, if you can't get through to YAU."

She suspects there's something wrong, Chloe realises.

Her mum suspects there's something wrong, she hasn't done a good enough job of hiding all the panic and the chaos rooting itself inside her head again and now her mum is worried about her on top of everything else, her mum is going to be worrying about her all shift and come home and rush around when she needs to be resting herself because she's so worried about her.

She's so selfish, Chloe tells herself furiously, over and over. She's so selfish…

She's her rapist's daughter. That's what she's always going to be to her mum, that's what Miss McBride said about children born from rape, and that's what she is…

"I know," she tells her mum. "I know. Mum?"

"Hmm?"

"I really love you," Chloe whispers.

She puts the phone down before her mum can ask her if she's really okay, and then she walks home, shivers furiously, cold and lethargic and her hands so numb she can hardly get the key into the front door by the time she arrives home, despite the promise she made.

She doesn't want to waste her mum's money on the bus fare, because she knows her mum will be replacing the money from her emergency fund in her school bag, won't let her go out without emergency cash.

She isn't worth it. Her mum shouldn't have to waste her money on her.

She stumbles in through the door, dumps her school bag and her PE kit and her folders in the hall and runs straight up the stairs and into the shower, the comfort and the relief of the hot water, takes her mum's advice on that part, at least.

She's so cold and wet that the heat from the shower almost seems to bite at her skin at first, deep throbbing, pins and needles, and Chloe rubs at her skin furiously, scrubs and scrubs and it's partly because it seems to soothe her discomfort at the sudden transition in temperature, partly because she feels dirty, revolting, unworthy.

She doesn't hurt herself.

She doesn't, she really doesn't, not intentionally.

It must have been the frantic scrubbing, the lack of care around the angry cuts to her skin, pre-existing.

She's so stupid, Chloe curses herself. She's so, so stupid.

Why is she so stupid?

She cleans herself up as best she can with toilet paper, clumsy, doesn't want to ruin anymore of her mum's bath towels than she already has like this.

Besides, she can flush the toilet paper away.

She dries her hair off with the towel as best she can, cold again, and the rational part of her brain tells her to dry it properly with the hairdryer, but she hasn't got time.

She's got to somehow work out how she's going to approach Miss McBride's essay and get that finished on top of the rest of her homework, or she's going to end up in detention tomorrow and her mum is going to be so disappointed.

She hasn't got time, she hasn't got time…

She feels so panicky all over again.

Bare feet padding across the carpet, she heads into her bedroom, shivering again.

Her bed has been changed, fresh linen, warm blankets folded at the end, pile of clean laundry on top, bright pink sticky note next to her favourite fleecy jumper.

_I miss u! Don't forget to eat. Bought u sushi for dinner, it's in the fridge xxx_

Her mum has drawn a caterpillar in the bottom corner, butterfly fluttering away diagonal at the top.

She should go and eat, Chloe tells herself.

She should go and eat, but she doesn't have time.

She assembles herself an outfit from the pile of laundry, stands for a moment in front of her bedroom mirror, still shivering.

It's a terrible mistake.

She looks _fat._

She looks like a child compared to the rest of the girls in her class, flat chested, scrawny legs, prepubescent and she hates it.

And yet her stomach looks _fat_.

No wonder none of the boys are interested in her.

She looks fat and too thin and childlike all at the same time, and she's too short; she's seen photos of her mum when she was fourteen and she was beautiful, elegant, actually looked fourteen, curves in all the right places, didn't have to stuff Kleenex down a bra she didn't even need to be wearing on PE days to stop everyone laughing at her in the changing room, long, dark hair, tanned skin, stunning.

Chloe wishes she could just look like her mum.

She knows she must look like the man who raped her mother, instead.

The Godards aren't sickly pale and strawberry blonde, and neither are the McFowlies.

She's a monster. She's a monster, and she knows it.

And thanks to Miss McBride and her ethics classes, she knows almost the entire class agree with her.

She hates feeling like this, Chloe ponders to herself sadly, shivers her way down the stairs.

She hates feeling like this, but she doesn't know what to do to change it.

Perhaps she's just going to feel like this forever, now.

Downstairs, she wanders into the kitchen, slowly, sad, defeated.

She can't seem to see past Friday, and Miss McBride's debate class, the one she's made perfectly clear is going to have a rather large bearing on their end of term report card, and the mere thought of bringing home a D to her mum is filling her with panic.

She knows the world is going to carry on turning. Rationally, she knows it, thinks of all the times her mum has reminded her of it gently when she's panicking over schoolwork, told her that it doesn't matter, that she'll be proud of her no matter what, but she can't let herself believe it.

Beside her cigarettes and a new lighter Chloe doesn't recognise on the kitchen table, her mum has left a bar of her favourite chocolate and a box of the chamomile tea bags she's taken to buying her when she knows she's feeling stressed out, terrible attempt at an origami bird perched on top, writing across its wings.

_Chocolate's for u. Can u put ur laundry in the basket please. Done ur pjs and changed ur bed but I have none of ur school tights? Can do them when I get home and put in airing cupboard if u need for tomorrow xxx_

Does she know? Chloe ponders to herself suddenly. Not about the tights, of course, her mum clearly doesn't know about that. But does her mum know that she's struggling, that she's desperately trying not to show it? How does she know… or is it just a coincidence? Is she just babying her a little, even in her absence, because she feels guilty about leaving her, or does she know, does she somehow know, just know, the way she so often seems to inexplicably, as though she can read her mind…

Chloe picks up the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, slips them into the bin so they're below the donner kebab wrapper, hidden.

She wishes her mum would just quit smoking.

She knows it's irrational, knows she needs to get a grip, that it's going to happen one day, but the thought of ever losing her mum still fills her with a horror that she's sure she should have grown out of by now.

She's being such a baby. She should be able to cope without seeing her mum for a week at fourteen, surely? She's sure most of the girls in her year who act like they're far too cool to associate with her would relish the chance to be left home alone for the week, wouldn't let Miss McBride's abortion and rape comments in RE faze them, wouldn't be reacting like she is.

Her mum would have fitted in with the popular crowd, Chloe considers absentmindedly, deep into self-loathing territory now.

Her mum was always popular, beautiful, intelligent without even having to try, without being labelled as the class nerd, always had her pick of boyfriends, never left with no one to sit next to on the coach for school trips.

Her mum must be so disappointed she's ended up with her as a daughter, on top of everything else.

There's another sticky note attached to the fridge door, bright yellow, orange cartoon-style sun shaded in as a background in coloured pencil, the way she used to when Chloe wouldn't want to eat her lunch in primary school, and she was trying to coax her into it, sending a week's supply of packed lunch sticky notes home in the post from St Andrews.

_Make sure you eat! Do u need ur homework diary signed? Leave out tonight and I'll do it later? Or u can forge my signature again. Love u honey bug xoxoxoxo_

Clearly, Chloe decides, a week or hardly seeing each other has somehow convinced her mum that she's actually four years old, not fourteen.

In the fridge, Chloe finds a pack of takeaway sushi and edamame and chilled green tea from _Momoko's_, a bowl of neatly-sliced fruit salad covered in cling film and her packed lunch ready for the next day.

In the bin, she finds a donner kebab wrapper and an empty Monster can.

Her mum has never been great at practicing what she preaches when it comes to healthy eating.

She hasn't got time to eat, Chloe reminds herself, stares at the sushi longingly, stomach growling furiously in protest.

She needs to sort out her essay for Miss McBride, she hasn't got time to eat…

She fills a glass with water instead, tells herself she'll eat her sushi later.

She knows full well she won't.

She has to write Miss McBride's essay. She has to write Miss McBride's essay or her mum is going to be so disappointed her, and she will have let her down, thrown all the years of sacrifices her mum has made for her back in her face, and she can't do that to her. She can't do that to her, she can't…

She has to write Miss McBride's essay.

She has to write Miss McBride's essay, but she doesn't know how…

Her breath is catching in her throat and her heart is racing, and she can't breathe, she can't breathe…

Everything is spinning.

Chloe doubles over, leans heavily against the kitchen counter, tries to slow her breathing down by herself.

She just wants her mum. She just wants to call her mum, thinks back to their earlier phone conversation, when her mum told her she could call her if she needed her…

Except she didn't mean it, Chloe tells herself.

Her mum didn't mean it, and even if she did, she's doing it out of a sense of duty to her.

Her mum doesn't mean it, her mum doesn't mean it…

She shouldn't be here. Her mum shouldn't be responsible for her, shouldn't have had to become a mother at seventeen to a child conceived from her rape, it's not fair, it's not fair on her mum…

Her mum deserves better.

Her mum deserves better than _her._


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm so sorry you've had to wait so long! I've had a couple of tests and a lot off the internet stuff going on and I just haven't had much time to work on this, but it should be better as of this week! But it's a long chapter, and this story has kind of taken on a life of its own, so you will be getting at least another 3 chapters after this :) Thank you so much if you're still reading! And a huge thank you to guest, Katie and Holbycityjosia for reviewing the last chapter. **

**Your thoughts/suggestions/requests etc would be massively appreciated as always! And if you have a preference re which of my stories you'd like me to update next, please do let me know, I know I have FAR too many on the go at the moment.**

**-IseultLaBelle x **

**Part IV**

She doesn't know what time it is.

She's lost all track, honestly, truly couldn't say how long she's been sat at her desk by her bedroom window, curtains drawn, lamp on, homework strewn out across her desk and tackling it with no real strategy, inefficient, jumping from Miss McBride's essay to her maths to her Gaelic oral questions to back to Miss McBride's essay, chemistry she can't get her head around (and she's stupid, so, so _stupid_, how is she ever going to become a surgeon like her mum when she can't even cope with her S3 Chemistry homework?), the next chapter of _Sunset Song_she needs to read for English tomorrow (she's already read it once, but she wants to make sure it's fresh in her mind, go through her notes again, just in case she's missed anything and then she's back to panicking about Miss McBride's essay all over again, frantic, because she just can't do it, and she knows she hasn't got a choice but she just can't work out where to start, can't bring herself to do it…

She's lost count of the number of panic attacks she's had since she sat down to tackle her homework, too.

Most of them while she's been trying to plan Miss McBride's abortion debate essay, the prompt sheet with the 'too traumatic for rape victims to have to give birth to their rapist's baby' part taunting her every time she even tries to look at it.

She can't do it. She can't do it, she doesn't even know how to do it, she can't, she just can't…

The trouble is, Chloe has accepted with an awful, sinking feeling in her heart, it isn't even just about Miss McBride's essay anymore.

She can't concentrate on _any_of her homework.

She knows she's made an awful mess of her maths and her Gaelic, and she's usually pretty good at those. And she's never found Chemistry as easy as biology, admittedly, but she's never felt this completely out of her depth before, can't concentrate, can't even make enough sense of the wording of the questions to understand what she needs to be doing, she's useless, totally useless…

It's not even just Miss McBride's essay anymore. She's going to make a total mess of all her homework, score the lowest possible grades this week and then school will be phoning her mum to tell her what a failure she is, they'll think she's either stupid or she's lazy or she's rebelling or all three rolled into one, and her mum will be so disappointed.

She can't disappoint her mum, Chloe tells herself firmly, frantically, rips her latest attempt at an introduction to Miss McBride's essay off her paper pad and screws it up into a ball, throws it into the bin below her desk heart pounding again and she can't breathe, she just can't breathe…

She can't let her mum down. She just can't, not when she knows her mum has sacrificed so much for her, given up the end of her childhood to take care of her, and yes, she was absent, a lot of the time, until she was ten, away at medical school and then working crazy hours to fast-rack her way to senior registrar and being financially stable, in a permanent, fixed role and able to take care of her full-time again. But at the same time, she knows that her mum did an awful lot of rushing home whenever she had any time off to spare, forgoing sleep, forgoing her social life to spend time with her, her rapist's daughter, gave up so much because she had to, because she had her…

She can't throw it all back in her mum's face, disappoint her. She can't do it.

Chloe knows she owes it to her mum to pull off a string of top grades in all her Standards, and then all her Highers and her Advanced Highers, be accepted into a brilliant medical school and come top in that, too.

Her mum managed it.

If she can't, if she isn't clever enough, isn't strong enough, it will be because she's like _him_. Her mother's rapist.

Her mum should have just had an abortion. Her mum should have taken the advice on Miss McBride's essay prompt sheet, she should have just had an abortion, gotten rid of her completely and then she could have lived her own life, enjoyed medical school and the start of her career properly without having to worry about her…

Her breath is catching in her throat again, and she can't breathe, she just can't breathe and her vision is blurring again, head spinning, heart feels like it's going to explode…

She must have had at least five of these this evening, and each time she thinks the next one can't possibly be any worse, somehow, it always is.

What if she just runs out of oxygen, Chloe panics now, gasps desperately for breath but it just doesn't seem to come, cold air seems to cut at her throat instead, painful, harsh. What if she suffocates, suffocates not because there's no oxygen to be had, but because she's worked herself into such a panicky mess that her body has forgotten how to breathe it in, gives up, just lets her die?

Is she going to die?

Does she want to die?

No, she doesn't want to die, Chloe decides, tries to inhale properly but her body won't let her, more and more light-headed now and she collapses forwards, sobbing, hyperventilating, must be covering her half-written English notes with tears and she's going to have to write it out again but that's the least of her worries, not when she's going to be in so much trouble with Miss McBride and she's going to end up in detention for the first time in her life and her mum is going to be completely furious with her and rightly so, because all she's ever been is a disappointment.

She doesn't want to die.

She wants to breathe, but she can't. She can't, she can't, she can't…

She's going to die. She's going to stop breathing completely and then she's going to die, she's going to die…

_You're pathetic_, the voice in her head tells her. _You're so pathetic, you do realise no one else freaks out over their homework like this? Why can't you just get a grip? You can't keep having panic attacks every time something doesn't go the way you want it to, everyone's going to think you're such a spoilt brat, you're pathetic…_

"Chloe?"

The sound of her name being called from a distance takes her so by surprise that she startles, jumps, only seems to be hyperventilating more and more violently as she struggles to breathe and her chest aches with the effort, just wants to sleep but she can't sleep, she can't calm down and even if she could she's got too much to get done before school tomorrow, she can't sleep…

"Chloe? Chloe, are you awake?" She can hear her mum calling faintly, but it feels as though she's underwater, everything muffled, as though her mum is miles and miles away, even though rationally she knows she's only at the top of the stairs but at the same time, in her heart, her mum seems miles away, unreachable, distant…

Her mum seems worth more than she'll ever be, deserving of so much more than she can ever give her, not with where she came from.

She's such an attention seeker. Her mum deserves better, her mum deserves a daughter who wasn't inflicted upon her by her rapist, one who isn't an attention-seeking panicky wreck, ugly, _stupid_…

"Chloe? Chloe, sweetheart?" her mum calls, must be right on the other side of the door, now. "It's not even five in the morning yet, what on earth are you doing awake? Chloe?"

She tries to call out to her mum that she's fine, that she should just go to sleep and not worry about her, but no sound comes out and she's such a horrible person, Chloe curses herself furiously. She's such a horrible person because her mum is finally done with her night shift, must be exhausted, must just want to sleep and she can't now because she's going to worry, going to come in to check on her and then she's going to insist on staying up with her until she calms down enough to breathe again, but what if she can't, what if she can't…

"Are you asleep, Chloe? I think you must be asleep, mustn't you?" her mum reasons, gentle, talking to her through the door as though she's tiny, certainly not fourteen. "Are you asleep? I'm going to come in and turn the light off if you're asleep, okay?"

And then there's a gentle creaking, tell-tale sign that her mum is pushing open her bedroom door and she's fighting so hard to control her breathing, pull herself together and it must be a couple of seconds, if that, but to Chloe, those seconds seem to last a lifetime.

"Chloe?" Her mum exclaims, voice laced with horror and heartbreak and then she's beside her in an instant- or she must be, at least, because Chloe can't muster the strength to pull herself upright and turn around to see but all of a sudden, her mum has one arm around her back, other hand gently on her shoulder, pulls her upright and then she's being held in a tight hug, gently guided until her head is resting against her mum's chest and she can feel her heartbeat, and it feels so _slow_, and controlled, why does it feel so slow…

"Come on, Chloe. Come on, breathe, sweetheart," her mum soothes, rocks her in her arms, and she must be kneeling beside her desk chair, Chloe reasons, so disorientated and light-headed and desperate for air that she's lost all sense of everything, can't think, and she can't breathe, she can't breathe… "Chloe, breathe in, for me, one, two, three, and can you hold it? Okay. Okay, that's alright, we'll try again. Breathe in for three. And hold it? One, two, three, and out for three. Calm. Come on, Chloe, calm, I've got you. You just relax, sweetheart, you're so tense. Relax. I've got you, okay? I'm not going to let you fall, I've got you. See? I've got you, you're safe, you can lean against me if you're exhausted. Okay? Just focus on your breathing. In, two, three, and hold it, Chloe. Hold it for three. And out, two three, and in, two, three. And hold. And breathe out slowly. There you go. You're getting there, sweetheart. It's just a bad one, isn't it, it's going to take a bit longer to sort your breathing out. We've got all the time in the world, okay? You take as long as you need, you just breathe. You just keep slowing your breathing down, lovely girl, I've got you. I've got you now."

She's trying so, so hard, she really is. Chloe doesn't know if she can try any harder, but it isn't working, it just isn't working…

"I love you," her mum whispers into her hair, holds her tighter. "I love you so, so much, my darling girl, I've got you. Come on, keep focusing on your breathing, Chloe. Breathe with me, okay? Try and follow my breathing, can you feel? Calm. Come on, Chloe, calm. Good girl. In for three, sweetheart, and hold it? Keep holding it. And out for three. That's it. I know, honey bug, I know it's horrible. It's going to be over in a minute, okay? I promise. I promise you're going to start feeling better soon, you just have to keep breathing."

"I'm so-" Chloe tries, but she can't force the rest out, shudders, and it isn't such a tremendous struggle to breathe anymore but she's still hyperventilating, exhausted, can't see how it's ever going to get any better, how she's ever going to calm down, can't remember a panic attack ever being quite this intense before and it isn't even the first time tonight and she's tired, she's so, so tired…

"Shhh. You've got nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart, have you? Nothing," her mum tells her firmly. "Come on, focus on your breathing, Chloe. You're doing so, so well, it'll be over in a minute. I'm the one who should be sorry, aren't I? I know this week's been rubbish, I know I abandoned you…"

"It's… your jo-"

"I know. I know, my lovely, but being your mum is my most important job, isn't it? Hey? It doesn't matter whether I'm at work or not, you're always going to be the most important teenager in my life. Always. Has it been like this all week?" she asks quietly, pauses for a moment as Chloe shakes her head. "All day? Oh, Chloe," she sighs. "Oh, Chloe, I'm sorry. I knew you didn't sound right on the phone, I should have just come straight home then…"

Chloe shakes her head, breathing coming in sharp, shuddery gasps now, but at least she doesn't feel as though she's about to pass out anymore, can see that maybe, just maybe, the end might be in sight.

"Yes, I should have. If you needed me, I should have come straight home, it's as simple as that. Try and breathe out slowly for me, sweetheart, you're alright. Everything's alright now, I promise. Everything's alright."

Her mum brushes her thumb under her eyes gently, wipes away her tears, and as Chloe finally manages to relax into her chest, she smells of comfort and reassurance, hospital disinfectant and latex and tobacco smoke and the perfume she bought her for her birthday last January, familiar, safe.

She's missed her so much.

She's pathetic. She's fourteen years old and she can't cope without her mum for a few days, she's so pathetic…

"Oh, Chloe, come on, sweetheart," her mum sighs softly. "Come on, relax for me again. Tensing up like that isn't going to help, you can't sort your breathing out if you're this tense, can you? You're doing so well. You're doing so, so well, don't start crying again. Don't cry. We can fix it, okay? If there's something that's making you this upset, we can fix it. I can fix it. That's what mothers are for, isn't it? And if you're just feeling sad and panicky and you don't know why, we can fix that too, alright? I promise. I know being a teenager's a bit rubbish sometimes, but you won't feel like this forever. Do you just need some TLC?"

Her mum strokes her hair gently, and Chloe shudders furiously, shakes her head.

She doesn't know how to explain, not without upsetting her mum.

She doesn't even know where to begin.

"No? Okay. I know, Chloe, I know. You just keep breathing, sweetheart, take some nice slow breaths out for me. I've got you. I've got you, you're fine, you're safe. You've got nothing to worry about, okay?" her mum soothes. "Nothing. I'm your mum, whatever it is, I can fix it, okay? I promise. So, you just keep taking nice deep breaths for me, calm your breathing down, and then you can tell me what's making you so upset, alright? There's no rush. You take as long as you need."

"You have… to… slee-" Chloe hiccups weakly, shakes her head, but her mum only holds her tighter, rocks her in her arms as though she's a small child again.

"No, I don't," her mum insists. "It's only four in the morning, it's not quite five yet. I'd still be on shift if I hadn't managed to escape early, I'd have another few hours left to go. So I'm fine. Okay? It's you we need to worry about, isn't it? I'll sleep when you do. Nice deep breaths, Chloe. In and out. In and out, sweetheart. There you go. I'm so, so proud of you, my sweet girl. It's nearly over. And then we can do whatever you want. You can tell me why you're feeling like this, or we can just get you into bed, okay? Have you slept at all?"

Wearily, guiltily, Chloe shakes her head.

"Oh, Chloe, what am I going to do with you?" Her mum pulls her back into her chest gently, strokes her hair like she used to when Chloe was tiny. "You're far, far too young to be pulling all-nighters. In fact, I don't want you pulling all-nighters ever, okay? There's no reason to stay up working on your homework past your bedtime. Alright? I know for a fact you're doing brilliantly at school, your half term report was amazing, even by your standards. You don't need to be working yourself into a panic over your homework. Or your revision. Or anything. Okay. You're fourteen. You're still a baby, there's nothing in your life that could possibly be so awful that we can't fix it. Do you believe me?"

Her mum doesn't get it.

Her mum doesn't get it, Chloe realises, sinking feeling in her heart, and she isn't telling her, because she can't bear to upset her. But if she doesn't tell her, then her mum is never going to understand that there are some things that she just can't fix, and then she's going to be in so much trouble when she goes into school tomorrow and she hasn't done her RE essay and Miss McBride will call her mum and tell her anyway and her mum will go mental because she's only being nice to her about it all now because she doesn't realise her daughter's perfect half-term report she'd joked about framing and hanging on the wall no longer applies and she's let her down, thrown all the sacrifices she's made , there's no way out…

Chloe just shakes her head, doesn't trust herself to try to speak in case she falls to pieces again. Because she's calmer now, still hiccupping a little, shuddering every few breaths and she knows from experience, been through this nightmare enough times since the panic attacks started six months or so ago to be all too aware that she's still on edge, calming down now but she could still push herself back over the edge into another panic attack at a moment's notice, especially given that's all she seems to have been doing all night, one panic attack after another and she just about manages to calm herself down and start getting on with her homework again but sooner or later the anxiety starts to build within her again and it's just like a vicious cycle, getting worse and worse every time it happens and if her mum hadn't come home when she did Chloe doesn't know what would have happened, because she couldn't breathe, couldn't control it, what if she'd just stopped breathing whatsoever and her mum hadn't come home…

"Chloe? Chloe, listen," her mum tells her, and her voice is still gentle, reassuring, but there's a firmer edge, too, no negotiation. "Wrong answer. We can fix everything, okay? I can fix everything. I'm your mum, you're fourteen, there's nothing that might be upsetting you I can't do something about. That's my job. That's always going to be my job, alright? You're stuck with me. I don't like seeing you upset. No matter how old you are, I'm always going to do everything I can to make things better when you're upset, because you're my daughter. Okay? And I love you more than you'll ever know."

"I love you, too," Chloe whispers, reaches, places her hand on top of her mum's.

She can't mean it.

How can her mum possibly mean it when she came from _that_?

Her mum shudders at her touch, recoils, and just for a moment, the tiniest of moments but it feels like an eternity, Chloe worries her mum is pulling away from her touch because she's so completely repulsive.

And she knows it's ridiculous, knows her version of events doesn't make even the slightest bit of sense when her mum is crouched beside her, holding her tightly in her arms, clearly doesn't have a problem with touching her, but she just can't shake it.

"You are _frozen_," her mum tells her worriedly, squeezes her hands, lets go, moves to press the back of her hand against Chloe's forehead. "You should have turned the heating up, sweetheart, I don't like the thought of you sitting here in the cold. Are you feeling alright? Chloe? Besides the obvious, I mean, that's probably a bit of a stupid question, isn't it?"

"I'm okay," Chloe tells her quietly.

It's not entirely a lie.

She feels so exhausted and weak and shaky and stressed that she honestly couldn't say if she feels ill, too, or not.

"You sure? You need to get some sleep, then, don't you? You look exhausted. Do you want to tell me what's wrong, sweetheart?" her mum asks. "Chloe? It might help to talk about it?"

"Just… too much schoolwork. There's no point going to sleep, is there?" Chloe whispers, drained. "I have to be up for school in a couple of hours…"

"Umm, no you don't," her mum says firmly. "You're not going to school tomorrow. I'm not sending you into school on two hours sleep, especially if you're already feeling overwhelmed with school. You can stay home, rest and watch a film in the afternoon, or something. I'll even let you borrow my foot massager if you ask nicely. I'll phone in later, okay? I think you've just worked yourself into a bit of a state, haven't you, you'll feel better if you take a day to just relax and calm down."

It's going to make it worse, Chloe panics. It's going to make it worse, Miss McBride is going to think there's nothing wrong with her and she's skipping school out of defiance, she's going to be in so much trouble when she goes back into school on Friday…

"Mum…"

"It's not up for discussion, Chloe," her mum insists. She's rocking her again now, gentle, almost as though she can sense the panic beginning to rise up within her, knows she's going to be gripped by another panic attack if she doesn't act now to prevent it. "I'm not sending you into school tomorrow on two hours sleep when you've been this upset tonight. You can miss one day, sweetheart. One day doesn't matter. I can help you catch up on what you miss over the weekend, okay? It'll be fine. Missing one day of school is nothing to panic about, you can catch up on one day. Do you honestly think you're going to feel calm enough to go into school in two hours? Chloe?"

Wordlessly, Chloe shakes her head.

"There you go, then, you're not going in. That's decided. Do you want me to stay home with you? Chloe? Tell me honestly, please."

"You have work, Mum…"

"Not if you want me to stay home with you. Are you going to be alright on your own? Chloe? Forget everything else, that's what I'm most worried about. Are you positive you're going to be alright if you're home by yourself tomorrow, you're sure you're not going to have another panic attack?"

Chloe hesitates.

She wants to tell her mum yes.

She really, really does, because she doesn't want to be the reason her mum has to try and get a day off work at short notice, doesn't want her mum to have to sacrifice her career for her, again, when she's already had to give up so much.

But she can't bring herself to lie to her, either.

That, and she's desperately craving her mum's comfort and reassurance.

She's terrified of having another panic attack, so irrationally afraid of it now that she might just end up having another panic attack because she's so afraid of having another panic attack, and what if her mum isn't here? She clearly can't calm herself down on her own at the moment, not when it's this bad, what if she just needs her mum and she isn't here…

Chloe shakes her head again, defeated, clings onto her mum.

Her arms are warm, safe, reassuring, and she's fourteen years old, for god's sake, shouldn't need her mum's comfort all the time, but she does.

She _does_, she's such a baby…

"Well, that's decided, then." Her mum squeezes her shoulder, pulls her in tighter, kisses her hair and Chloe doesn't _understand_, doesn't understand how on earth her mum can bear to be so affectionate with her when she's the daughter of her rapist, an abomination, vile, evil, shouldn't be here at all. "I'll phone in tomorrow and explain, okay? We're not making a habit of this, though," she warns lightly, runs her fingers through Chloe's hair. "I wish you'd dry your hair until it's actually dry, no wonder you're so cold. We can't do this all the time, can we? But we can do it once. I think you've just feeling a bit overwhelmed, aren't you? Chloe? Did something happen at school, sweetheart, did something upset you?"

Chloe shakes her head. "Just… I didn't have time to go to sleep, I've got too much homework…"

It's not totally a lie.

Her mum nods, pensive. "Okay. But pulling an all-nighter isn't the answer, Chloe. Alright? You promise me you aren't going to do this again? You're totally exhausted now, aren't you, you're barely holding yourself upright. And that wasn't the first panic attack you've had tonight, was it?"

"How do you know?"

"I'm your mum, I know everything. I don't want you ever to get yourself so stressed out over school you put yourself through that again, Chloe, do you promise? You tell me next time, okay? And I'll sort it. Even if I'm not here, if I'm working stupid shifts, you still tell me. You phone me, or you text me, you leave me a note, whatever you want to do, but you tell me. And I'll fix it. I can phone your school and tell them you're going to get all your homework done eventually, you just need some more time to work through it all, as long as I know you're trying to keep on top of everything and you're not taking advantage, I'll always do that. Okay? I promise. I can help you with anything you're struggling with this weekend, alright? We can sit down and go through it together. It's not going to be like this all the time, sweetheart, I hope we won't have another week like this one. But I always want you to tell me, okay? If you're struggling, if you're feeling overwhelmed, I always want you to tell me. You're sure there's nothing else? Chloe? Nothing's happen that's upset you?"

Chloe shakes her head.

"Okay. Okay, then shall we get you into bed? Yeah? You'll feel better once you've gotten some sleep, you'll see. You can sleep in as long as you like, and then we'll look at your homework together and we can watch a film, or something. Whatever you want. Do you want to come in with me tonight?"

"Isn't it morning?"

"Not for you, it isn't, you need to sleep. You'll feel better for it. So are you coming in with me? You can do whatever you want, sweetheart, you just tell me what you want to do."

"Are you sure it's okay?" Chloe whispers.

She feels like a burden. She feels like her poor mum is going to wake up one day and realise she's wasted the best years of her life on her, the baby forced upon her she should have just gotten rid of, she feels as though she's never been anything but a waste of space, repulsive, as though her mum can't have ever loved her, not properly, because how could she…

"Of course it's okay. I wouldn't suggest it if it wasn't okay, would I? Hey? Of course it's okay, why on earth wouldn't it be okay?"

"Because I'm fourteen," Chloe tells her quietly, eyes fixed firmly on the carpet. "And I shouldn't be still…"

"Hey, we'll have none of that, please," her mum tells her firmly. "You need to stop being so hard on yourself, you know that? It's okay. You're allowed to be stressed, everyone gets stressed out sometimes. I mean, I'd much rather you weren't getting yourself so stressed out you end up having panic attacks again, but you're working on that, aren't you? You'll get there. And I'm not going to complain about you still wanting hugs with your mum. I was driving your nana insane by the time I was your age, I was a right nightmare. Believe me, I don't ever want you to be like that. Come on, then, are you going to get your pyjamas on? And then we need to have a quick chat before we go to sleep, alright? It's nothing to worry about, I promise. I'm not angry with you. Can you stand?"

Chloe nods weakly, carefully, gingerly, pushes herself to her feet. "I'm fine, Mum…"

"You've just had a major panic attack and you've practically pulled an all-nighter, of course you're not fine," her mum fusses, pulls her gently to her feet, begins to lead her away from her desk and then she freezes, rooted to the spot, one arm tightly around Chloe's waist and her free hand reaching out for one of the messy stacks of paper on her desk, and Chloe realises all-too-late that the last thing she was working on before she succumbed to her latest panic attack and her mum came in to rescue her was Miss McBride's ethics essay.

"Chloe," her mum demands. "Chloe, what the hell is this?"


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm so sorry this has taken so long- the length of this chapter is the reason why! I honestly don't know how this ended up so long, but I hope it hasn't ended up too convoluted! **

**As with the previous chapters, there are mentions of self-harm in this one- it's in line with the episode with Chloe and Evan and the horse, but please feel free to PM me before you read if you're worried. **

**Reviews would be wonderful as ever- and I THINK there will just be one more proper chapter of this and then an epilogue! But I'm totally open to writing more teenage Chloe if you'd like to read it. **

**-IseultLaBelle x **

**Part V**

"Chloe. Chloe, who gave you this?" her mum asks furiously, and there's anger in her eyes now, pure, utter rage. "Which one of your teachers gave you this… this…"

"It wasn't my fault," Chloe whispers urgently. "It wasn't my fault, I didn't want to do it, I didn't…"

And then she's sobbing again. Out of nowhere she's sobbing furiously, can't breathe all over again, air cold and harsh and cutting at her throat like fractured glass, and it's ridiculous, she knows it's ridiculous, knows full well that her mum's fury isn't directed at her, but she just can't stop.

"Oh, no, Chloe," her mum exclaims, horrified. "Oh, Chloe, come on. I'm not angry with you, sweetheart. I promise. I'm not angry with you, my lovely girl, why would I be angry with you? Hey? You don't pick your own homework, do you? I know it's not your fault, Chloe, it's alright. It's alright." She's hugging her tightly against her chest again, sways gently, calm, strong, safe. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Chloe, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry. I'm not angry… look, come on, Chloe, come and sit down and we can talk about it properly. Okay? Sit down for me. Good girl. Breathe, Chloe. Breathe. Come on, slow your breathing back down for me before it turns into a proper panic attack again. Breathe. It's alright." She's sat beside Chloe on the edge of her bed now, arms around her, pulls her back into her chest, strokes her hair. "I'm not angry with you, sweetheart. I promise. I'm angry, yes, but not at you. Never at you, not over this. Okay? You've got nothing to panic about. Is this the real reason you're upset?" her mum asks gently. "You can tell me. Don't try and speak, Chloe, you'll make it worse. Just focus on slowing your breathing back down and nod or shake for me. Is this why you've been so upset about school you haven't slept?"

Shakily, Chloe nods.

She just wants it all to stop. She's exhausted, and her head is spinning, and her heart is pounding in her chest again and her breathing still erratic and she just wants it all to stop…

"Okay," her mum says quietly, something strange in her voice Chloe can't quite place. "Okay, it's okay. I'm going to sort it, Chloe. Alright? I'm going to sort everything, you leave it with me. You've got nothing to worry about. I'm going to sort it all for you in the morning, you don't have to worry about any of it anymore. Or anything like that ever again. Okay? I'm your mum, that's my job. You don't ever have to worry about stuff like this, that's what I'm here for. This is the kind of thing you need to just hand over to me and let me deal with. Alright? It doesn't matter whether I'm here during the week or not, you can phone me, or you can text me, or you can leave me a note, you can call the YAU once you're home from school and get hold of me there if it's something like this. Always. I never want you to feel like you can't tell me this kind of thing, sweetheart. This is exactly the kind of thing you should be telling me straight away, okay? I'm not going to be angry with you, or upset, or anything like that. I'm more upset you've been feeling so upset and you didn't tell me. I would have sorted it all out for you if you'd told me before."

Her mum presses her hand to the back of Chloe's head gently, cups, and her hands are warm, Chloe ponders sleepily; warm and safe and wonderfully reassuring.

It's enough to make her believe that maybe, just maybe, everything might be okay in the end.

Just enough to convince her that it isn't going to feel like this forever, that perhaps she isn't such an abomination after all.

There's no hatred in her mum's voice, not towards her.

No resentment.

There's just love.

Chloe knows full well her mum isn't that good an actress.

"I'm going to fix everything," her mum promises. "You don't have to worry about any of this, I'm going to fix everything. Okay? I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm sorry, I know I shouted, I should never have made you feel like I was angry at you, should I? No, don't you dare, Chloe, I know what you're going to say, and don't you dare. None of this is your fault. I wouldn't want to have to write an essay on that… that… that _shite_, if I were you, either."

"You… tell me… not… to use…" She can hardly force the words out through her sobs, fighting to slow her breathing down again but she isn't quite there yet, still shaken, uneasy, with this fresh wave of panic flowing through her.

"I know, I know I don't like you swearing," her mum agrees quietly. "But this is… I don't know. I don't want you using that word, but it's the best I can come up with to describe that rubbish, and I didn't even get a proper look at it."

Curled up against her mum's chest, listening for the rhythmic thudding of her heartbeat, Chloe can feel her shaking with anger.

Somehow, it makes her feel better.

Not that she'd ever want her mum to feel this angry, of course, especially not when she's just come in off a nightshift, must be exhausted, drained, desperate for sleep and stuck staying up to look after her teenage daughter who really should be able to fight her own battles, sort this kind of thing out for herself, should be able to explain why she was so upset about her RE homework on her own so her mum doesn't have to pick up the pieces, shouldn't still be turning into a panicky wreck whenever anything upsets her, she's pathetic…

"We have…" She's still struggling to speak but she's desperate to explain, because the floodgates have opened now, relief flowing through her that her mum knows, that she understands, that this isn't just her burden anymore and there's no going back. "We have to… do… a de-bate on… Friday… about…"

"About abortion?" Ange realises. She runs her fingers through Chloe's hair soothingly, rests her chin gently against the crown of her daughter's head. "Oh Chloe… Okay. Okay. Are you sure you want to do this now? Yeah? Because we can just go to sleep now, can't we, I'm not going to work tomorrow, I'm not leaving you like this. We can just leave it until tomorrow and then we can..."

Chloe shakes her head firmly.

She just wants to get it over with. It's as though the floodgates have opened now and she can't hold it all in anymore, just needs to let it all out, to cry.

"Okay," her mum realises. "Okay. And did… which teacher is this for?"

"Miss… Mc-Br-ide."

"RE? Youngish, a bit rabbit in the headlights, didn't have a clue how the new standard grading for her own subject was going to work when I asked her at parents' evening last month? Her? Okay. And did she… did you get to pick which side you're supposed to take, or…?"

"She… told us. I'm sorry, I'm… sorry…"

"No, no, no, Chloe, why are you apologising? You've got nothing to apologise for, sweetheart? Have you?"

"But I shouldn't… be… crying…"

"I think you've got plenty to cry about, actually. I don't blame you." Her mum rocks her gently as though she's a small child, arms warm, protective. "I'm not surprised you're upset. That's totally understandable. Is it alright if I have a look?" her mum asks carefully. "Chloe? I'm not going to be angry with you, sweetheart, I don't care what you've written, I'm not bothered by that. I just want to see what your teacher's set you. Is that alright?"

"Are you… go-ing… to… talk… to…"

"Breathe, Chloe," her mum soothes worriedly. "Breathe. Breathe in for three? That's it, and hold it for me? Good girl, and breathe out for three. And breathe in slowly? Slowly, sweetheart, slowly. There you go. Keep taking nice deep breaths like that for me, you're alright. Everything's alright now. I've got you now, sweetheart, everything's going to be alright. I'm going to fix everything. I'm your mum, I'm always going to fix everything for you because I hate seeing you like this. Okay? I love you. You're my beautiful, special baby girl, aren't you, I'm always going to be here for you, sweetheart. Always. So yes, I'm going to talk to your school. I'm not having you this upset over a homework assignment, it's ridiculous. It's ridiculous that your teacher's given you something that's made you this upset, it's not ridiculous that it's made you feel like this," her mum covers quickly. "So I'm just going to have a look. Okay? You're not in trouble, I just want to see exactly what Miss McBride's given you. I'm going to let go of you for a minute, alright? Are you going to be okay if I let go of you?

"I'm… not a… baby… Mum…"

"I know you're not a baby, but you couldn't hold yourself upright a few minutes ago, could you, you were totally collapsed over your desk when I got home. That was the worst panic attack I've seen you have in ages, you're just going to have to put up with me making a fuss of you for a while. And if you don't like it, tough. You're my baby. Aren't you? You're my beautiful, kind, funny, clever baby." Slowly, carefully, her mum lets go of her, steps back over towards Chloe's desk, bends over, studies her RE homework sheet with a face like absolute thunder.

There's no doubt in Chloe's mind that her mum is making a huge deal of telling her this now because she knows her too well, knows exactly what her daughter's thought process will have been since she was given her homework assignment and she's determined to convince her otherwise.

"It's just… a… debate… about… abortion…" Chloe forces out through her tears, still hiccupping, still struggling to breathe- calmly, at least, still seems to have to focus with all the energy she has left in her to slow her breathing down, actually remember to take in oxygen. "She told us… which… side we… have to… argue… and then… we have to… write… an essay… first… she gave… us…"

"This shite," her mother finishes for her, trembling furiously as she skim-reads Chloe's homework sheet, the crumpled, discarded beginnings of multiple attempts at writing her essay she never progressed past an introduction to before ripping it up and starting again, gripped in the clutches of another panic attack. "She gave you a side of A4 of complete and utter _shite_about how…"

"Abortion… should be… legal… b-b-because it's… too… t-traumatic… for…"

"Chloe…"

"Rape… vic-tims to… have… to… have… their… rapist's…"

"Chloe. Chloe, look at me, sweetheart," her mum pleads. 'Look at me." She holds up Chloe's essay prompt sheet, waits until she has her attention, and then she grasps hold of each side of the paper, tears it clean in half, screws the severed pieces up into a ball and throws it into the bin, gathers up Chloe's essay attempts, piles them in on top. "That's what I think of Miss McBride's thoughts on pregnancy after rape. It's bullshit. Everything she's put on that homework sheet is complete and utter bullshit, and I don't want you believing a word of it. Ever. Not for a moment. And I don't want you ever using that word, either, come to that, but that's not the important part. Okay, you promise? Chloe, promise me."

"But…" Chloe whispers faintly. "But you… have… to look… at me… e-every… day… and..."

"I get to look at you every day and know I have the most wonderful daughter," her mum finishes, comes to sit back down on the bed next to her. "I wouldn't change anything about you, sweetheart. Ever. You're _perfect_. I have never, ever looked at you and felt anything but love for you, you're my beautiful baby. I can't even explain to you how much I love you. You're mine. You're not anyone else's, you're not a reminder of… of that. You never have been. I can't change how you were conceived," her mum agrees quietly, pulls Chloe back into her side. "I know I can't change that, and do you know why it upsets me? Because I know how distressed you were when I told you. That's all. I don't see you as connected to what happened to me at all, I know that might be hard for you to believe, but I need you to know that I'm telling you the truth. You're completely innocent of all that, aren't you? What… what happened to me, it wasn't your fault, sweetheart. You didn't do it. You can't blame yourself for what happened to me, I don't care if that man happened to be your sperm donor or not. And yes, I'm going to call him that. He's the sperm donor, Chloe. He's not your father, he'll never, ever be your father. He's just the sperm donor. He provided the other half of the DNA I needed to have you, but that's it. That's as far as it goes. I've never looked at you and been reminded of him, even before I saw you, when I was pregnant, I never associated you with him. You're _Chloe_. You're not him. It's just DNA. You're not the only person to share that DNA, you wouldn't hold everyone else with any blood relation responsible for what he did, would you? So you can't blame yourself either."

"But I'm…"

"You're _my _daughter."

"Mum," Chloe whispers faintly. She cuddles into her mum's side, shivers, wraps her arms tightly around her neck and clings on with everything she has.

She feels safer and more self-assured than she has in days, curled up in her mum's arms, never wants her mum to have to leave her to work stupid antisocial nightshifts again, but she knows that just isn't possible, wouldn't ever tell her.

The last thing she wants is to make her mum feel guilty.

"I mean it, Chloe. It's not up for discussion. You're mine. You're not anyone else's, I'm not sharing you. I'm far too selfish for that," she teases gently. "You're my baby girl, the best thing about being a single mother is I don't have to share you with anyone else. You're my daughter. I carried you, I gave birth to you, I raised you. Well, and Nana, while I was at medical school. But the point is, you're nothing to do with him, Chloe. Nothing. You're _my_daughter, and I'm so, so proud of you. I wouldn't be without you for the world. So I want you to forget about all the rubbish Miss McBride's been doing with you at school, okay? It's not true. Maybe it's true for some women, but I've never felt that way about you. I need you to believe that, sweetheart. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me…"

"You were raped, Mum…"

"So? Just because you came out of one of the worst things that's ever happened to me, doesn't mean you can't be the best. I love you," her mum murmurs. "I love you more than I ever realised it was possible to love another person until I had you. I'd go through all that…" her mum pauses, clings onto Chloe tighter. "That day… the day I was raped, that was one of the worst things I've ever had to go through. It really was. It was awful. But I'd go through it all again if you gave me the choice, because it gave me you. I wouldn't ever want to be without you. I wouldn't give up you for anything. Miss McBride doesn't have a clue what she's talking about, she should never have told you any of that crap. Believe me, she will regret ever giving you that homework when I'm done with her, let alone expecting you to parrot her bullshit back to her in a class debate."

"You never swear," Chloe whispers, buries her face in her mum's hair.

"I never swear in front of you," her mum corrects her. "Not normally, anyway. I'm just so pissed off with your RE teacher for upsetting you like this, I'm making an exception, just for today. I used to swear like a trooper before I had you- there you go, you totally changed my life for the better, there. No, really, you did, sweetheart. I was completely off the rails before I had you, I was lining myself up for an ASBO, leaving school with just my standards and a lifetime stacking shelves in Scotmid. I didn't realise how desperately I wanted to be a doctor until I was on the neonatal intensive care unit with you. I never would have settled down and gotten on with my highers if I hadn't had you, I certainly wouldn't have healed after… you know. After I was raped, if I hadn't had you. You turned my life around. I would never have sorted myself out if I hadn't had you to do it all for. You taught me how to love again. You were so tiny and innocent and pure, you made me realise the world wasn't the awful dark place I'd convinced myself it was. Miss McBride knows nothing."

"Mum…"

"She doesn't, Chloe. She knows nothing. I'm the one who's been through it. I am telling you, as someone who's lived through rape and had a baby, Miss McBride's trauma argument is complete and utter shite. I've never felt like that about you. Ever. And I'm going to have serious words with your school tomorrow, but you need to push all this out of your head. Okay? It's not true, Chloe. None of it's true. You know I love you, right?"

Chloe nods weakly.

"Good. Do you really think I would have kept you, do you think I would have spent… I don't know, how many years have I really, properly been your mum?"

"Nine?"

"I'll take that. You're pretty generous. But even when I wasn't, sweetheart, even when I was away at medical school, I still thought about you all the time. I still worried about you all the time, if anything I think I worried about you more when I couldn't be there with you. I knew Nana was doing an amazing job of looking after you, of course I did, but my god, being away from you was stressful. I know… I know it probably doesn't feel like that to you, I know it must feel like I abandoned you. And that's fine. I don't blame you for feeling like that. But what I'm trying to say is I know I wasn't here, I know I wasn't your mum, while I was at uni, not properly. But I thought about you every single day, I worried about you every single day. Do you really think I would have done that, do you really think I would have spent the other nine years being your mum if I felt all that rubbish Miss McBride thinks? Hey? Of course I wouldn't have. I won't lie to you, single teenage motherhood is a whole different level of difficult, it makes medical school look like a walk in the park. That's why you're not having sex until you're thirty. I never want you to have to struggle like I did, I want you to have your own children when you're properly grown up, and you're settled, and you've got an amazing career and all your qualifications and a partner who loves you. But I wouldn't change any of it. I mean, yes, I wish I'd had you when I was a bit older, more settled, I wish I hadn't had to go away to medical school and leave you with Nana for five years. But you wouldn't have been you then, would you? You wouldn't have been you, you'd have been another baby, if I'd waited until I was older to be a mum. And I don't want another baby. I never have. I've only ever wanted you."

"Even if that means you've been stuck with me for the last fourteen years, and all your friends your own age are only just having their kids now?" She's finally managed to calm her breathing down now, head resting against her mum's chest, listening to the soothing rhythm of her heart beating.

"Hey, I have _not_been stuck with you. I'm lucky. You know that? I feel so, so lucky that I get to be your mum. I mean, sure, you wind me up sometimes. You know, little things, like I wish you wouldn't leave your bedroom in a mess. I say that, it's pretty tidy at the moment, actually, I'll let you off. But I love you more than I've ever loved anything else in the world, I need you to know that, Chloe. Even though I had to give up the last of my young, free teenage years to look after you. Even though it's been a bit of a struggle at times, hasn't it, managing with you and work and still managing to have a tiny bit of a social life and paying the mortgage on top of all the money you cost me. You don't come cheap, do you?"

"I'm sorry," Chloe whispers. "I'm sorry…"

"What? No, no, no, no, no, Chloe, I was joking. You're not that expensive, sweetheart, I was joking. And anyway, you're worth every penny, aren't you? Hey? It was a joke, Chloe, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I should have realised you're not quite ready for jokes just yet. I'm sorry." Her mum is rocking her back and forth again now, breathing with her, as though she's worried Chloe is going to slip back into the clutches of another panic attack. "I wouldn't trade you for anything. I really wouldn't. I know it hasn't always been easy, but I wouldn't ever want to be without you. You're the best thing that's ever, ever happened to me. The point is, I know it would have been easier to wait to settle down and have kids when I was older. When I was done with medical school. When I was done with school, come to that. I know that. But I didn't want to do that. I wanted you. I chose _you_…"

"You didn't, though. You didn't have a choice." Chloe runs her fingers though her mum's hair, fusses, and she knows she's behaving like a baby, being totally ridiculous but she's so far beyond caring now, just wants her mum's comfort. "You _had_to have me, you didn't know you were pregnant with me until it was too late to have an…"

"No," her mum agrees quietly. "No, I didn't. But I… listen to me, sweetheart. You're exhausted, aren't you? I know. I know, Chloe, I know you feel rubbish, we'll get you into bed in a minute, okay? You'll feel better once you've had some sleep. But listen to me first. Please?"

"Can I close my eyes?"

"You can do whatever you want, as long as you promise you're going to listen." Her mum grips her tightly, agitated, somehow, and just for a moment, Chloe starts to convince herself that she's on-edge because she's about to lie to her, because she didn't want her, not really, that it's all a horrible, awful lie…

"Chloe, listen," her mum insists. "Yes, I found out I was pregnant with you so late that I didn't have the option of… God, I can't even say it. I've assisted with a few of those procedures, when I've worked on obs and gynae, I've never had a problem with it but I can't even say that word when I think about it in relation to you. But I didn't… I've told you this before, haven't I? I didn't know it was too late, when I realised I was pregnant. I thought I was four months or so, when I realised, I didn't know until I had you it was more like seven. I thought I was miscarrying, when I went into labour, I thought you were too tiny for there to be any hope. And at no point, before I had you, did it ever cross my mind to book myself in for… you know. One of those. I knew I wanted you. I only started sorting myself out because I knew how much I wanted you."

"You wouldn't have known, though," Chloe realises sadly. "If you didn't know how far along you were, you wouldn't have known I came from… that, when you decided you wanted me."

"It doesn't make a difference," her mum tells her firmly. "I wanted _you_. I couldn't have cared less who your sperm donor was, I knew I was going to be a single mum, either way. It doesn't mean anything, Chloe. All I knew was I desperately wanted to be your mum, and that was that. I wouldn't change a thing about you. You're perfect. I've thought that ever since I first saw you, since I knew. And anyway. There was still adoption," she adds quietly, pensive. "I could have gone down that route, after you were born. But I didn't. I didn't even consider it, because I knew I wanted you. I knew I couldn't give you up, I loved you too much. I never, ever want you to doubt that. I'm not questioning that some women feel differently. But I never… I've never felt the way your idiot of a teacher thinks I'm supposed to. Okay? I'm not just telling you that, I mean it. You're not traumatic. That's the last word I'd ever, ever use to describe you. Miss McBride had no right to give you that shite. So I don't want you to worry about anything. Alright? You've handed it over to me now, I'm going to deal with it tomorrow. You've got nothing to worry about. You're not writing that essay, you're not doing the… so Miss McBride wants you all to do a class debate thing on Friday, is that right?"

Chloe nods wearily.

"Well, you're not going to school on Friday then, either. I'm not putting you through that. And I'm certainly not putting you through being pulled out of RE for the day, the last thing you need is your classmates asking you why. I can talk work into giving me a couple of days, I'll take you into Edinburgh for the day. We can even see if there's anything good on at the theatre, if you want, we'd probably just about make the last train home, wouldn't we? Or we can book a hotel room, make a weekend of it."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know I don't. But I want to. I was already feeling awful that Nana and I left you all by yourself for the week as it was, I feel beyond guilty now."

"I don't want you to feel guilty. That's why I didn't say anything, I didn't want to upset you…"

"You're sweet, aren't you? But as much as I appreciate how considerate you are, I never want you to feel like you can't tell me when you're upset, okay? I'm your mum. That's what I'm here for."

"If you talk to my teachers, they're going to think I'm just making a huge fuss about nothing and I need to grow up and…"

"No, they're not. They're not, Chloe, I promise they're not. Miss McBride needs to learn to be more sensitive, if she's going to cover emotive topics like that. You're fourteen. Some adults find this stuff difficult to talk about, for God's sake. For all we know, you might not be the only one upset…"

"I think I am," Chloe confesses quietly.

"You don't know that."

"I do. Miss McBride's really angry with me because…" Chloe shuffles awkwardly in her mum's arms, hates being in trouble, more or less certain that her mum is going to let her off, but there's still that lingering doubt in the back of her mind. "I was supposed to hand it in two weeks ago, and I just… didn't…"

"Chloe," her mum sighs. "So you've been upset about this for two weeks, and you didn't tell me…"

"I… I didn't want you to be angry with me, I thought you'd just hear the part about not handing in my homework and you'd…"

"I'd never do that. You tell me straight away, in future, you promise?" Her mum rubs her back soothingly. "If anything like this ever happens again, you tell me straight away, Chloe. You don't sit on it getting more and more upset, you tell me straight away. What made you decide to write it tonight, then? If you've been avoiding it for two weeks?"

"Because… Miss McBride said if I didn't hand it in tomorrow, she was going to call you into school and…"

"Let her try. Believe me, she's going to be the one apologising to you, when I'm done with her."

"Mum…"

"No, Chloe, I mean it. You can call me embarrassing all you like, I'm not letting it go. You've just had the worst panic attack I've seen you have in months, I'm not letting it go, sweetheart. I'm not having you this upset over a homework assignment. I'll deal with it in the morning, okay? I'll deal with it, you've got nothing to worry about. I'm going to take care of everything, you'll see. Right, come on, then. Are you going to get your pyjamas on? Yeah? I'll give you some space, I'll be back in a minute."

"Are you still sleeping in here?"

"You can stay with me if you want to, of course you can. You're coming in with me, though. I put all the spare blankets on your bed this morning, I'll swelter if I come in with you. You can bring one in with you if you think you're going to freeze, but I'm not pulling all the blankets out from under your duvet. I'll be right back, Chloe, okay? I'm just going to go and get changed, you can shout if you need me."

"You can leave me on my own for two minutes, Mum, I'm not a baby!" Chloe calls after her mum as she carefully shuts her bedroom door behind her, as her gentle footsteps on the landing carpet become softer and softer before they fade away completely.

It's only then, alone, calmer, that Chloe realises there's another sticky note on top of her clean pyjamas and her fluffy socks, placed carefully on her pillow.

_Still miss u :( Am going to give u a HUGE hug when I see u. Sleep well sweetheart xoxoxoxo_

Chloe imagines her mum sat at the kitchen table with her pack of post its and her marker pen, planning her trail of notes to leave for her.

She's picked Chloe's warmest pyjamas, socks with the thermal linings, as though somehow, inexplicably, she knows her daughter has spent the whole week shivering, avoiding turning the heating up.

How does she know?

"Chloe?" her mum calls softly a few minutes later, knocks tentatively on her bedroom door. "Chloe, sweetheart, can I come in?"

"Okay!" Chloe pulls on her pyjama top frantically, pulls her legs up to her chest, curled up in the middle of her bed.

She's exhausted now.

She was exhausted before, of course, but this is something else. She feels as though she could just curl up under her blankets and sleep for days and still be tired, struggling against the heaviness of her eyelids, vision slightly blurred, head spinning just a little.

She's exhausted. She's exhausted, she just wants to sleep…

And so when her mum appears in the doorway, now dressed in her tartan pyjamas, first-aid kit clutched against her chest, Chloe bursts into tears again.

She knows exactly what it means, where this is going.

She can't.

She just can't.

She doesn't have the strength to do through it all, not now. She doesn't want to talk about it, she just wants to sleep, just wants it all to go away.

Why can't her mum just accept that this is how she copes, that's it a terrible habit she can only seem to break for a few months at a time and then everything falls apart again? Why can't she let her be, leave her to it, just let her… let her…

"Oh, no, Chloe, don't cry," her mum covers frantically, abandons the first aid kit at the edge of Chloe's bed, shuffles over, pulls her into her arms again. "Don't cry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to upset you, I'm sorry. You're alright. I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to do, Chloe, I promise."

"I don't want to talk about it, Mum!" Chloe protests weakly, distressed. "I don't want to talk about it, I don't, I just want to sleep…"

"Shhh. I know you do," her mum murmurs. "I know, and that's fine. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, it's okay. Everything's okay. I'm not going to make you talk about it if you don't want to, sweetheart, but I would like to make sure you haven't got any wounds that need treating. Will you let me do that?"

"How did you know?" Chloe whispers faintly.

"I'm your mum, I know everything. I found blood on your laundry earlier," her mum admits. "When I got in from work… well, yesterday morning, now."

"I'm sorry…"

"No, no, no, it's alright. I reckon I can get it out your dance stuff, and you need some new school shirts anyway, don't you? It's alright. You've got nothing to apologise for, sweetheart. Nothing. I don't ever want you to apologise for this. I'm the one who should be apologising to you for leaving you all by yourself for the week, aren't I? Do you promise you're going to tell me next time? Yeah? Next time I'm on a week of nights and you're struggling a bit, do you promise you'll tell me?"

"I promise."

"Good girl. Can I check you over, then? Yeah? I just want to stop you getting an infection, I'm going to get the antiseptic wipes out and put some dressings on you so can't scratch yourself and make it worse, are you happy with that? We don't have to talk about it, I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to do. Okay? I don't want to upset you, I just want to make sure you aren't going to end up with a wound infection."

"Okay. Thank you," Chloe tells her mum quietly, sincerely, hopes she'll understand.

She's grateful for so much more than her mum's concern for her physical wellbeing.

She's beyond relieved that her mum seems to understand exactly what she needs in that moment, doesn't push her, even though she must be aching to address the elephant in the room.

Chloe isn't stupid.

She knows how hard it must be for her mum to know full well she's self-harming again, powerless to stop it.

"You're more than welcome, sweetheart. I'm not going to just leave you to suffer, am I? Can I have a look at your arms? I'm going to be really quick, Chloe, I promise," her mum fusses, waits for Chloe's cautious nod of consent, gently pushes up the sleeves of her pyjama top. "And then you can sleep. Okay? You can sleep in as long as you like, I'm not going to wake you up later. Sorry," she sighs sympathetically, Chloe wincing in pain at the harsh sting of the antiseptic wipes. "Sorry, Chloe, I know it hurts. You didn't eat your sushi," Ange tries carefully. "I thought sushi was your favourite."

"It is."

"But you didn't want it last night?"

"I didn't have time. I had… Miss McBride said she was going to put me in detention and phone you if I didn't hand my essay in tomorrow, and then I had other homework to do…"

"Okay. Okay, I can't say I haven't done that before at work. Sorry, sweetheart, I know I'm hurting you."

"It's not your fault." Chloe looks down, ashamed, can't meet her mum's eyes. "It's my fault, I'm the one who…"

"Hey, we'll have none of that, please. It's not your fault, Chloe. None of this is your fault. It's your teacher's fault for being so ridiculously insensitive, and I'm going to give her hell tomorrow, believe me. You've done nothing wrong, darling. Nothing. I'm sorry you've been so unhappy you've felt like you needed to do this. Anyway."

Chloe can see the worry in her mum's eyes now, as she smooths the dressing adhesive down over her arm; the worry she's evidently trying so hard to keep from her.

"You always have time to eat, Chloe, alright?" her mum tells her now, voice gentle, firm. "Always. You're only fourteen. You're still growing…"

"Do you think?"

"You're definitely still growing. I reckon you'll get to my height, at the very least. You're far too young to be skipping meals to get more work done, no one's expecting you to do that, Chloe. I promise. If you end up with more homework than you can get done in one night again, you tell me, and I'll email your teachers and we can come up with a solution. Okay? A solution that doesn't involve you skipping your dinner. I really, really don't want you to do that. Can you lift your top for me, then? Don't look at me like that, sweetheart, I know. I've done your laundry today, I know. Or yesterday. Or whatever it is, I always lose track with nightshifts."

"Mum…"

"It's okay. It's okay, I'm nearly done. It's just a particularly bad one, it's going to sting a bit."

"Are you going to go into my school tomorrow?"

"Yep. I'm not doing it over the phone, Miss McBride can look me in the eye and tell me what the hell she was thinking."

"Do I have to come with you?" asks Chloe worriedly.

"Not if you don't want to. I'd really rather not leave you at home by yourself, but I'm not going to make you come with me if you don't want to. Will you stop sucking it in? It's okay. Relax, Chloe. You're tiny. No one in their right mind is going to look at you and think you're fat, least of all your mother. And anyway, I can't talk. Never did lose all the baby weight. Do you think I can still call it that when my baby's a teenager?"

"I thought you said you didn't look pregnant with me."

"No, I didn't. Not when I was actually pregnant. I was still in the awkward could just have gained some weight stage at eight months, nothing like with… with what I would expect, I mean. And then I gave birth to you, and all of a sudden, my stomach looked like a deflated water balloon. Still does, to be honest. The things no one warns you about before you get pregnant. But why would I want a bikini body when I could have you instead, hey? You're the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you so, so much, I can't even imagine what my life would have been like if I hadn't had you. You're my little ray of sunshine. Always. Even if you ruined my body."

"That wasn't me, Mum. That was the kebab you had for dinner last night."

"Shut up, little miss stick insect. God, I'd kill for your metabolism."

"My metabolism's rubbish."

"Umm, no, it's not. Fourteen's just a horrible age for body image, that's all, you start picking your appearance to pieces and wishing you looked like everyone else. Am I right? It gets better. I promise it does, you'll see. Okay. So is that you sorted, then?"

Chloe nods sleepily, rests her head against her mum's shoulder. "Thank you."

"You don't have to keep thanking me for looking after you, do you? I'm your mum. Shall we get you into bed before you fall asleep on me, then? Chloe? Come on, hold onto me."

It's a blur, after that.

She's exhausted, practically asleep before her head has hit the pillow on the vacant side of her mum's bed, just vaguely aware of her mum wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, guiding her down, pulling her gently into her arms.

"Love you, sweetheart," her mum whispers, kisses her forehead. "Go to sleep."

When she awakens, everything is hazy.

Chloe doesn't even make it as far as opening her eyes; just stirs, fidgets, limbs feel as though they're made of lead and so she moans in protest, curls herself back up into a ball, clings tightly to the warm hand draped over her side.

"Hi Rachel, it's Ange Godard," she hears her mother on the phone, somehow sounds wide awake, energised, as though she's had a full eight hours, not come home from her nightshift to deal with her panicky wreck of a teenage daughter. "Is Mrs Aitcheson in yet? Oh, okay. Can you tell her I'm really sorry, but I won't be in this evening, please? My daughter's not well, I can't send her into school and my mum's away at the moment looking after my grandparents, I haven't got anyone else I can… okay. Okay, brilliant, thank you. Yeah, I'll keep you updated. Thanks so much, Rachel. Bye. You still sleeping, sweetheart?" she murmurs, seems to have put down the phone. "Or are you waking up? Hmm? New consultant on the YAU, haven't had a chance to tell her about my darling daughter just yet. That's the advantage of having you young. She assumed you're about four, I think, she didn't even question it. I'll deal with Mrs Aitcheson later, don't worry. She'll get it. She took a whole week off with Tara when she found LSD in her school bag last month, she can't complain about giving me a couple of days. You know Tara Aitcheson? She's in S5, that's why you all had that drug awareness talk at school the other week. But you totally didn't hear that from me. And then it's the weekend, isn't it? My weekend _and_the actual weekend. And we can do anything you want, okay? Anything you want as long as it involves us being joined at the hip, because I'm not letting you out of my sight. I think you're going back to sleep again, aren't you, Chloe? That's alright. You sleep for as long as you need, sweetheart. I've got you. Everything's okay now."


End file.
